


Heavy Weather

by Shir_Khan



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Casual Sex, Developing Relationship, EARLY 90s, M/M, Natural Disasters, Period-Typical Homophobia, Road Trips, Storm Chasing, nerd!Church, photographer!Tucker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23634229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shir_Khan/pseuds/Shir_Khan
Summary: Given that Church and Tucker only interact once a year when storm season rolls around, they’re really closer to acquaintances than actual friends. But if Church is going to spend days at a time cooped up with another person, he prefers it to be someone he won’t end up strangling, and that’s slim pickings.
Relationships: Leonard L. Church/Lavernius Tucker
Comments: 34
Kudos: 46





	1. Can I Kick It?

By the time he pulls into the empty lot on the edge of the city, tires kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel, the sun is already perilously high in the empty blue sky. It was the kind of day to draw sweat from underneath his clothes, mocking him for continuing to cling to the comfort of his windbreaker.

“You’re late,” he says, like Church doesn’t already know, and swings a thrift-store camera case onto the back seat.

Church waits for him to unload the rest of his things in the trunk, taking a drag from his cigarette. Blue-grey smoke mingles with dust billowing in through the open window and curls along the dash. Even the breeze is warm today.

Beside him, the car creaks and sinks as Tucker takes the passenger seat, sunglasses perched in his hair and a tattered CD case balanced on his lap.

“There’s been a slight change of plans,” Church says in greeting, and peels out of the parking lot.

Tucker barely acknowledges that, already distracting himself by dicking around on Church’s complicated radio setup, flipping switches, turning dials, and moving around loose cords as he sees fit.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Church sucks another drag off his cigarette before flicking it out onto the asphalt. “I want to try up north. Kansas. I was watching the weather this morning—they’re getting this supercell right now that looks way more promising than what we’ve been waiting for here.”

“How far?”

“It might cross into Nebraska by tomorrow night.” Tucker lets out a low whistle. “But I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

“A little early for you to be fucking with optimism, isn’t it?”

Church ignores him and focuses on merging safely onto the I-45, rolling up the windows as they gain speed. Tucker’s not wrong; it is a bit early in the season. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing out there to see.

“So, we have a game plan for today or we just going to wing it?” Tucker asks and pops a disc into the system. Resounding baseline floods in through the speakers. Church reaches over him to turn the volume down a few notches.

“Let’s just see how far we can get. I’m hoping we can make it to Wichita before it gets too late, and we’ll see if there’s any change from there.”

“Cool beans.”

Tucker stretches out in the seat, flipping his shades down over his eyes, the perfect image of not giving a fuck. And that right there is why he keeps the kid around; Church gets call the shots and Tucker doesn’t make a fuss when plans change on a dime. He already feels his grip loosening on the steering wheel as tension he didn’t know he was carrying bleeds out onto the highway, trailing behind them with the Austin city limits sign.

Given that Church and Tucker only interact once a year when storm season rolls around, Tucker spending the rest of his time doing whatever it is freelance photographers do, they’re really closer to acquaintances than actual friends. But if Church is going to spend days at a time cooped up with another person, he prefers it to be someone he won’t end up strangling, and that’s slim pickings.

“Oh, before I forget, I’ve got something to show you.”

Tucker unbuckles his seatbelt and twists in his seat to reach behind them. Church hears the double pop of his briefcase unlocking, then the soft rustling of foam.

“New camera?” Church guesses, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Not just any new camera. Check it.”

Church spares a glance towards his companion, who’s now brandishing a sleek black camcorder, excitement and pride evident in his grin.

“Woah. When did you get _that_?”

“I bought it a couple months ago, but haven’t really had anything to use it for, yet. Well, anything cool, that is. It’s great for making home movies, though, if you know what I mean.”

It takes a beat for that to sink in. Church grimaces. “Ugh. Gross.”

Tucker laughs. He aims the camera in Church’s direction and puts on an over-the-top David Attenborough impression.

“Here we see the rare Church—this species is known to only emerge from its den once a year to hunt for storms. It’s said that Churches can survive solely on rain water and Waffle House—"

Church reaches over blindly to push the lens away, ever uncomfortable being in front of a camera.

“Ooh, we’ve got ourselves a feisty one! Let’s see if we can get a closer look, shall we?”

Church adjusts his glasses self-consciously and shoots him an unimpressed look. “I think we’re close enough already, thanks.”

Tucker only laughs louder, and Church ignores the heat rising in his cheeks.

Nine hours and several gas stations later, they do end up in Wichita. Church stays up watching the Weather Channel until Tucker rolls over on the adjacent bed and chucks a pillow at him with a muffled demand to turn the lights out.

They convene mid-morning over weak coffee and stale motel muffins, the sound of the morning news droning in the background. Church furiously maps the forecast onto paper county maps he finds in the hotel lobby, specifically making sure to mark the initiation and predicted path of the evening’s storm cells.

Tucker doesn’t provide much input during this beyond pointing out toll roads and travel time, and that’s just fine with Church. Not everyone has the mind to appreciate the incredible atmospheric events at play during a thunderstorm like this. It’s whatever.

By the time they leave the city, thick nimbostratus clouds have rolled over the horizon, blanketing the sky like a funeral shroud. Wind whips at their heels all the way to a place called Stockton, where the two post up in a lonely Pizza Hut—what might be the town’s only restaurant—wiling away the time with a couple orders of breadsticks before its back on the road.

And the road is their destination.

They park at a crossroads of flat, sun-cracked pavement stretching out for miles like a compass rose, watching in vigilant anticipation as the evening sky awakens. Just as predicted, a thunderous black mass begins to form in the turbulence, scraping steadily over serene, bucolic landscape. The hairs on Church’s arms prickle and rise in the charged air. Sweaty palms clench the worn leather of the steering wheel.

Even from a distance, any seasoned chaser could tell this wasn’t some garden-variety thunderstorm. No, this was going to be a _tornado_.

A sudden drop in pressure, and the atmosphere unleashes a pattering of soft rain around them. For all the hours leading up to this moment, it takes only minutes before the roiling supercell in the distance drops a mesocyclone, settling into that distinguishable anvil shape Church recognizes immediately. He double, then triple-checks the spaghetti motley inked onto the paper map plastered on his steering wheel before kicking the car into gear and chasing down the road.

The rain picks up as they edge closer to the cyclone. About a mile away, a weak, dusty vortex begins to whirl up under the churning base. Tucker leans forward in his seat and stretches over the dash to get a good angle with his camera.

“That’s going to be a decent fucking tornado,” he says, awe evident in his voice. He tears his gaze away from the storm to look at Church. “I mean, right?”

“I think so. If it gets close to town, maybe an F1, F2? Fuck. Just look at that.”

It’s difficult not to. It was as if the entire sky was funneling down to single point, channeling the fury of the heavens into one long tendril, the finger of God reaching out to Adam.

It’s not that Church hates his desk job, or that he’s got some mid-life crisis thing going on (he’s only thirty, for fuck’s sake, no matter how much Tucker insists he acts like an old man). He’s not a thrill-seeker, or an adrenaline junky; he doesn’t have a death-wish. It's just that nothing else compares to coming face to face with Mother Nature when she’s at her most powerful—and her most beautiful.

God, he’s missed this.

Racing down the country road, Church’s mind is in pieces, adrenaline granting him the clarity to simultaneously comprehend and tune out everything happening around him: the low, garbled conversations over the radio; the shuddering snap of Tucker’s camera; the grip of rubber against slick asphalt. But most of all, his attention is centered on the tornado ahead, and the exact moment when it finally makes contact with the ground.

“There it goes! You see that, Tucker?”

Church slams his palm triumphantly into the wheel.

“I see it, dude! Go faster!”

“I _am_!”

A familiar, angry buzz suddenly pierces through their excitement.

“Looks like the brilliant minds at the storm prediction center have issued a tornado warning,” Church snarks. Tucker snickers.

Up ahead, the cyclone is briskly overtaking the valley, chewing up topsoil and ripping trees out by their roots. Dense curtains of rain wrap around the vortex. Even as Church tries to keep a safe distance, winds from the powerful rotations tug against his grip on the steering wheel. The door of the bear’s cage was quickly slamming shut.

Without warning, the rain-wrapped mass makes a hard left turn, pulling it off their present trajectory. Church dives off the nearest offshoot road and charges north after it. He distantly registers the eerily inhuman voice on the radio urging the people of Rooks County to seek immediate shelter.

“Shit,” Church says abruptly. “We should call this in.”

“Right, right.”

As Church tries to navigate them through the flurry of rain, Tucker fiddles with the CB. His voice is barely audible over the sound of hail pelting their windshield as he informs NWS dispatchers of the tornado’s approximate location.

“It’s got to be, what, like, three, four hundred yards in diameter?” he says, and it takes Church a beat to realize he’s talking to him.

“Yeah. Last seen travelling northeast about thirty miles per hour.”

Tucker repeats this information into the receiver. From the calm voice thanking them on the other end, it sounds like theirs isn’t the first report. Church wonders how many others are out there chasing at that very moment.

The rain lets up just in time to give them a clear shot at the tornado as it catches on something on the ground. All at once, the vortex fills with debris. A sense of detached dread threads around Church’s gut.

Tucker snaps another picture. “I hope that wasn’t someone’s house.”

“Or a school,” Church says morbidly. “Or a hospital.”

“Oh, dude. That would be so fucked.”

The tornado makes quick work of whatever it was, shredding massive chunks into unidentifiable particulates in a matter of seconds. Church wonders if any of them were once bodies.

“Think anyone died?” he blurts, because he just can’t fucking help himself. The sound of his own brazen, dispassionate voice grates at his ears. Tucker isn’t fazed by it, though. They’ve been through this before, and this time, the pause before Tucker’s next words is almost imperceptible.

“Nah, everyone should’ve heard the tornado warning by now,” he says with such calm confidence that Church finds stupidly soothing. “And there’s been severe storm warnings all day.”

Church lets out a breath.

“Right. It was probably just a bridge or something, anyways.”

A flash of lightning rips through the sky and strikes down next to them in a nearby field. Church lifts off the gas under the ensuing clap of thunder. The fog of rain was closing in on them again, and he could no longer make sense of the mesocyclone, let alone see ten feet into the distance. Even his glasses were beginning to cloud up in the deluge.

It’s too dangerous to keep going. The onslaught of sudden rain feels like ocean waves crashing violently against them, threatening to capsize their two-man vessel. Church sighs and turns on his hazards, slowing down to make a U-turn on the narrow road.

It isn’t just the tornado they have to watch out for, but hail and lightning, as well as all the twisted metal, fallen trees, nails, and live wires that could be scattered in the tornado’s wake.

“You smell that?” Tucker half-shouts over the rain.

Church inhales deeply and, sure enough, his nose and throat burn painfully. He nods.

“Smells like gas. There must be a broken fuel line nearby.”

Tucker looks around, as if expecting to see anything past the rain, let alone invisible gas pouring into the air.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here, then!”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Church whips the car around. He’s not going to get upset about losing this trail; he needs to focus on getting them out of the danger zone as quickly as possible, before the tornado decides to make another sudden turn. He tells himself that they can get on another road and try again from another angle.

But when they finally make it out of the rain, the tornado has already disappeared. More time must have passed than Church realized, because the sun is already hanging low against faraway hilltops, alighting the decaying thunderstorm in furious reds and golds.

It takes a while for Church and Tucker to find their bearings in the aftermath. After a couple minutes of arguing and driving around in circles, they realize that the storm had downed several powerlines, which is why they could no longer see the lights of the city in the distance.

By the time they find a place to spend the night, Church is crashing hard from his adrenaline rush, body sore and brain dead. Tucker was practically dead on his feet—he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Church, on the other hand, lies awake for some time, listening to the steady sound of Tucker’s breathing from the bed next to his as he replays the events of the day in his head.

When sleep finally takes him under, Church dreams of a churning black sea.

They wake up early the next day to make the five-hour drive down to Enid, Oklahoma, which Tucker bitches about the whole way. He shuts up come two o’clock, though, when they see the beginning of an afternoon of endless tornado activity. One after another, small but gorgeous, well-defined columns of dust spout into the sky—sometimes more than one at once.

Every once in a while on this lucky streak, they catch a glimpse of a heavily modified, cherry-red jeep passing them by. It looks ridiculous, like a mechanized puma or something, save the two tusk-like tow hooks curling out from under the front bumper.

Ridiculous, but also painfully familiar. So, when they hear a gruff southern accent over the CB warning chasers in the area of a ‘massive mothership’ off the I-64, they know exactly who it belongs to.

Tucker unhooks the radio’s microphone piece and brings it to his lips. Church shoots him a look. _Don’t encourage him._

“Ten-seventy-six to your position, Red. You got a yardstick on that?”

Church rolls his neck, glaring at the traffic jam ahead of them. He can just barely see the top of the perfectly shaped anvil cloud in the distance, and the fastest the yahoos in front of him were capable of going was three miles per hour.

“ _Negatory, son_ ,” the voice on the radio responds. “ _My god, she’s a beauty! Better hammer down, it’s moving fast!_ ”

“Jesus, fucking—” Church practically punches the horn in frustration when the car in front of him suddenly brakes, “Watch it, you dumb bitch!”

The idiot driver ahead flips him off. Church starts, scoffing in indignation. He jerkily rolls down the window to return the gesture.

“Learn how to drive, prick! You’re going to fucking kill somebody!” The other driver yells something back at him he doesn’t quite catch. “Oh, shove it up your ass!”

Church decides he’s had enough and pulls into the oncoming traffic lane, speeding around the line of rubberneckers until he’s able to turn off onto a branching dirt road, which was already soaked with rain and churning into viscous mud beneath their weight. He pats himself on the back for remembering to buy new tires before this trip.

Tucker’s still chatting with the man on the CB—Sarge is what he goes by. Church can hear his twosome of weirdos bickering in the background of each transmission. The trio, who refer to themselves by their CB handle, ‘Red Watch’, are fellow storm chasers Church and Tucker have gotten to know over the years simply through repeatedly finding themselves in the same places at the same times. They’re also weirdly competitive—always trying to one-up Church and Tucker on how many tornados they spot each season. It’s all very inane and pointless, really.

Not that Church is above a little pointless competition. As he heads towards the tornado, he finds himself scanning the ground for cherry-red. He’s not sure any of them have recognized Tucker’s voice yet.

That is, until Sarge mentions something about a hail shaft.

“I’ve got a shaft you can hail. Bow chicka wow wow.”

There’s a pause on the other end, then a new voice—Grif’s, “ _Tucker?_ ”

Church and Tucker exchange amused glances.

“Took you long enough! How you been, assholes?”

“ _Goddamnit, I didn’t know I was conspiring with a dirty Blue!_ ” Sarge cuts in again before Grif can respond, referring to Church and Tucker’s own CB handle. “ _This tornado ain’t for you! That was, uh, a misdirection, you see. Ten-twenty-two and all that. It’s actually east of Enid! Far, far east._ ”

Church snatches the mic from Tucker’s hand.

“Bullshit! We’re looking at it right now! Actually—yeah, we can see you guys, too!”

“ _You can’t see us; we can’t see you!_ ”

Tucker leans over to talk into the mic still in Church’s hand, pressing both of their thumbs down on the PTT.

“Dog, you’re driving a bright red tank made out of trash. I’m pretty sure dudes in space can see you.”

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Church adds, “You led us straight to the tornado, so: booyah, motherfuckers!”

“ _We got here first, so that makes this tornado property of the Red Watch!”_ Sarge crows victoriously over the radio, and Church hears Simmons in the background chiming in with a “ _Suck it, Blue!_ ” before Grif takes back control.

“ _Simmons says hi_.”

In a strange turn of events, they somehow end up caravanning with the Reds all the way to Texas. Sarge is even more gung-ho about being early than Church usually is, insisting on hitting the road at the crack of dawn.

Tucker takes the first shift for driving. He sings loudly and obnoxiously to the radio all through Oklahoma City morning rush-hour traffic, including the same Whitney Houston song multiple times, until Church begs him to stop. Then, as soon they switch out at a gas stop, he falls right asleep in the passenger seat, somehow managing to bother Church just as much with his silence.

They pull off somewhere before the Texas border so one of the Reds can take a leak by the side of the road. The absence of motion seems to draw Tucker out of his sleep, as he straightens with a yawn and rubs his eyes.

Church is about to dive into a rant he’s been saving about these three annoying flies that’ve been buzzing back and forth through in the car all morning, but Tucker speaks first.

“Man, I had the worst dream just now,” he mutters.

Church frowns, the flies temporarily forgotten. “Really? What about?”

Tucker’s head lolls back into the headrest, gaze fixed lazily somewhere in the distance. “I had this nightmare where there were crazy tornados everywhere, like, all around us, and I couldn’t get my camera to work.”

Church snorts. “You’re a dumbass.”

That elicits a heavy-lidded grin from Tucker. He looks so stupid like that, Church thinks, shirt collar askew and brown curls plastered to one side of his face.

A knock at the passenger side window causes him to jump in his seat. It’s Simmons, looking as tired as he feels. Tucker rolls down the glass for him.

“Hey. We’re stopping for breakfast.”

Tucker immediately perks up.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” He looks at Church like a puppy getting unhooked from his leash. “Breakfast?”

Church shrugs. “I could go for some coffee.”

“Okay, whatever,” Simmons says at the window. “Just follow us there, then.”

As he’s stalking back to the Red Watch vehicle, Tucker turns to stage-whisper at Church. “Looks like someone’s not a morning person.”

Church forgets to tell him about the flies.

Midday sees the Reds and Blues positioned on the dryline, sunny and fair, with white fluffy clouds rolling above them. It’s perfect conditions to spawn two massive tornados, some of the most glorious Church has seen yet.

During the first one, Tucker had walked way too far from the car to get his shot, just as the tornado had begun to make a full turn and charge towards their position. For the second, he had sat on the doorframe of their moving car, hanging out the open window, this time trying to record a video as they sped down a bumpy unpaved road. Church had to yank him by the back of his shirt to sit his ass in the seat. It’s like the kid was trying to test Church’s patience today.

That theory is further proven when, later that afternoon, as their caravan is wiling away by the side of some country road waiting for something to happen, Tucker wanders off and suddenly reappears sporting a massive snake draped around his shoulders.

Simmons absolutely flips his shit.

“Ack! Where the hell did you get that? What are you doing? Keep that thing away from me!” he screeches, rushing to the safety of their armored red car.

“It’s just a harmless bull snake, dude,” Tucker calls back innocently, though his eyes are dancing with mischief and a slightly feral smile plays at his lips. “What’s the matter?”

He walks towards the Reds, and all three of them step back in unison. Even Church gives him a wary distance, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Tucker, man, why do you always gotta pick up every snake you see by the side of the road? You’re going to get yourself bit one of these days.”

Tucker shrugs slowly, careful of the snake curling down his arms. Church notices that he’s doing that thing with his hands, putting one in front of the other before of the snake’s exploratory nose like a never-ending treadmill for the serpent.

“If he wanted to bite me, he probably would’ve already. Besides, bull snakes aren’t venomous anyways. They’re actually super chill, which is why a lot of people keep them as pets.”

“I don’t care how chill it is, who in their right mind would want a snake as a pet?” Grif asks, wrinkling his nose at the scaly creature. Then he tilts his head. “What would you even name a pet snake anyways? Fluffy?”

“Man up, Grif,” Sarge says. “Taming wild animals is just one way for man to express his fundamental dominance over nature.”

Tucker turns to him. “You wanna hold him, Sarge?”

“Hell no!”

Despite their obvious reservations, all three spectators crowd around in curiosity to watch as Tucker feeds the snake water out of the lid of a repurposed lemonade bottle. The snake instantly shoves its whole face in, gulping the water down in a way Church finds strangely reminiscent of a dog. He chuckles in surprise.

“Would you look at that,” Sarge laughs. “Thirsty fella. I don’t think he’s even going to come up for air.”

Tucker catches Church’s eye over the display and smiles widely, cheeks dimpling. From the other car, Simmons loudly demands for someone to please hurtle the snake into the nearest ditch.

As should have been expected, their tentative little caravan dissolves by evening, the Reds having decided to try their luck up in Tennessee of all places, while Church elects to stay closer to Tornado Alley. Before parting ways, they go out for drinks at some podunk bar, where Church gets into a heated debate with Grif and Simmons about different forecasting techniques.

He loses track of Tucker and Sarge’s conversation, but he’s pretty sure it involves the brilliant entrepreneurial idea for an ‘adult’ weather service, whatever that means. The phrase ‘ball-sweat meter’ floats past him more than once.

By the time they pull up to the motel, Church is exhausted. It’s closing in on eleven o’clock when they arrive, and despite the sign promising 24-hour service, it takes nearly half an hour of waiting by the front desk before anyone makes an appearance.

He leaves Tucker to find them a room and heads instead for the vending machines by the side of the building, still tipsy and wobbling slightly on his feet. What he really needs is an aspirin, but he settles for a packet of powdered donuts sure to make him feel like shit if he weren’t planning on immediately passing out after eating them.

He manages to devour every single donut before Tucker finds him, zoning out to a rack of local newspapers. Neither of them says anything until they’ve crossed the threshold to their rented room. Church sheds his luggage at the doorway, not even sparing it a glance.

“Uh oh.”

The door latches loudly behind them.

“What?” Church asks, but the answer is obvious when he looks up.

The room is small and austere, just like in every other cheap motel around these parts, with water stains on the carpet and ceiling, dinged furniture, and nothing to light it but the low glow of a single lamp bulb still hanging on from the eighties. Oh yeah, and there’s only one bed.

Church tries to swallow down the sweet, cottony feeling in his mouth, but it catches in his throat. His whole brain suddenly feels very fuzzy and overheated.

“I asked for two beds—she must not have heard me right,” Tucker hastens to explain. “I can run back and see if we can switch rooms, she might still be at the desk.”

“Don’t bother,” Church hears himself say through blood rushing in his ears, “We’ll just share.”

“Are you sure? That bed is kind of small. I don’t think we’re both going to fit.”

Tucker catches his lower lip between his teeth, wide brown eyes looking up at him questioningly. Church narrows his eyes at him in return.

“You really are a little twerp, aren’t you?”

The corner of Tucker’s lips twitches upwards, and he jerks his face away to hide it. It doesn’t work. Humor bleeds into his next words.

“What? I thought it was a good line.”

Church can’t help the soft chuckle from escaping, the burning in his brain starting to feel closer to delirious giddiness than he’d like to admit. Whatever, he’s tired.

“Yeah, real _subtle_.”

Tucker’s coy façade shatters, and he breaks out in a shit-eating grin, canines dragging slightly over his bottom lip. He swaggers towards Church and yanks him close by the belt loops.

“C’mon, you like it.”

Somehow, Church feels his internal temperature rise even higher, burning his face and prickling his palms with fresh sweat. An even darker pulse of heat floods his core, jumping at the growing familiarity of what’s to come.

“You should be more careful about this shit, man. People might get the wrong idea.”

“Like what?” In a swift display of unexpected strength, Tucker spins them around and pushes Church backwards onto the bed with a creaky bounce. “They’ll think we’re queer?”

God, Church hates that word. But the churning it causes in his stomach is rapidly eclipsed by something heavier and more urgent as Tucker rocks his hips between Church’s legs. It’s been goddamn ages since he’s been touched even platonically by someone else, and it shows in the way his body hungrily reacts to Tucker’s attention.

It should be embarrassing how Tucker hasn’t even done anything yet and Church is already close to overdosing on his own desire. The kid doesn’t need to know that these trips are literally the only time throughout year he gets laid. Maybe he already does, but Church sure as hell isn’t going to admit it. His fingers, sticky with powdered sugar, twist themselves in Tucker’s jacket, pulling him flush to his chest for a long overdue kiss.

Church isn’t exactly sure how the fucking started. The timeline of it is hazy. It just kind of happened one day; caught up in the endless cycles of adrenaline and boredom. One bizarre and supremely embarrassing encounter involving hands and mouths led to just another way to pass the time, and now, three years later, it’s beginning to feel almost normal.

Some storm chasers pick up lucky sticks in roadside debris; Church and Tucker occasionally put their dicks inside of each other. Traditions can be weird like that.

As Tucker works his way down his neck, Church fumbles with taking off their jackets. Tucker’s mouth is unnaturally hot against his skin and it’s really fucking distracting.

“I’m just glad you didn’t go for the ‘one of us will have to sleep on the floor’ route—that would’ve been a mood-killer,” Tucker says between kisses.

Knuckles brush against Church’s erection when Tucker’s hand goes down to work at his belt. Church’s breath stutters in his chest.

“Oh, you’re definitely sleeping on the floor. Brat.”

Church’s belt is pulled free in a matter of seconds, Tucker’s weight leaving with it. He straightens to slip his shirt over his head in that distinctly masculine way, exposing the plane of rich tawny skin underneath that Church’s hands automatically seek.

“Willing to fight for that position, Church?” Tucker asks, tongue peeking out playfully behind white teeth. Church quirks a brow.

The challenge is met with a graceless and increasingly naked struggle for dominance. Frustrations of the year are shed with his clothes, stripped away under Tucker’s roaming hands, leaving him feeling wanted and utterly masculine. But Tucker always seems to have an extra ounce energy to give, and its Church who finds himself yielding first.

He’s the real winner, he decides later, when he’s pinned against the mattress getting the ever-loving fuck ridden out of him. No penetration, just two bodies moving against each other, Tucker’s hips expertly swirling and grinding down on his own, flesh sliding against flesh.

In no time at all, Church dives head-first over that golden hill. A single, choked gasp, and thick warmth splashes over his sweat-slick stomach. Tucker isn’t far behind, tumbling down after him as the last shudders of ecstasy are racking through his frame. His ears are still dully ringing when Tucker pries himself off Church’s body.

Becoming aware of himself again, bare and exposed in the low lamplight, Church crosses his hands shyly over his lap as he waits for Tucker to fetch something to clean the mess currently pooling in his belly button and threatening to drip onto the comforter. He emerges from the bathroom with a damp washcloth and smacks Church’s hands away when he tries to wipe himself off.

When Tucker is nearly done, Church clears his throat.

“Grab me a smoke from my bag, will you?”

Tucker makes a face at him. “Why don’t you do it?”

“You’re already up.”

Tucker groans like the lazy asshole he is, but ultimately acquiesces, tossing the soiled cloth onto the floor and crossing room. Church burrows under the covers and lets himself enjoy the view of the younger man’s lithe figure as he digs around in his luggage.

Tucker certainly doesn’t seem to share any sense of modesty. Standing stark naked at the foot of the bed, he places one of Church’s cigarettes between his lips and sparks up. Church can see his muscles work as he pulls in the first drag, glistening from the thin sheen of sweat that still clung to his skin. Not for the first time, Church finds himself wondering how Tucker got to be the way he was.

Tucker turns the cigarette over in his fingers. His brows knit together critically and he exhales smoke in a steady stream. “You know these things cause cancer, right?”

“What are you, my doctor? Get off my back.”

He beckons for the cigarette. Tucker lazily crawls onto the bed to hand it over.

The first hit of nicotine crashes down on him like sweet, summer sunshine. Why doesn’t he seek this out more often, again?

“Just looking out,” Tucker says lightly, waiting for Church to finish before snatching the cigarette right out of his fingers.

Church’s limbs are positively boneless now. He feels his soul floating off the bed, even as his body remains weighed down by the thick comforter and Tucker’s warm body snuggled up under his arm. Church watches the shadow of a dimple form in the hollow of Tucker’s cheeks as he sucks on the cigarette.

“You don’t get to talk shit if you’re smoking, too.” Church points out. He reaches over to take the cigarette back, but Tucker pulls it out of his reach.

He leans in close, so close his nose nearly brushes against Church’s. Church, expecting another kiss, reflexively drops his gaze to Tucker’s lips. But Tucker just hangs there. Backlit by the lamp, the ultra-soft curls framing his face glow like a fiery halo. The air between them is buzzing, charged, like the space between ground and sky.

“I guess misery loves company,” he says, words billowing out in a puff of smoke.

Church breathes it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference: Red Watch refers to a tornado warning, and Blue Watch refers to a severe storm warning. I just thought they'd be cute alternatives to Red Team and Blue Team.
> 
> This is unbeta-ed, so if you see any mistakes please let me know?


	2. All The Man That I Need

It was only a matter of time before their lucky streak burnt out. Church just wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon. The weather he was anticipating falls through at the last minute, predictions pushed back to as late as May.

They drive from state to state chasing rumors on the radio, but no matter how many hours they put in—driving, waiting, mapping out storm cells—the next few days leave them consistently empty-handed. They start taking the back roads simply because there’s too much time to kill between destinations.

It gets frustrating, and Church gets increasingly snappish. He’s pretty sure Tucker notices.

He’s especially sure when he nearly punches the radio through the dash upon hearing that fucking Whitney Houston song come out of his speakers for the umpteenth time that week.

“If they play that song one more time, I’m going to shoot myself,” he snarls into the abrupt silence. “And get your feet off my dash.”

He swats at Tucker’s legs. Tucker drops his feet with a groan.

“Dude. I’m so bored.”

“What do you expect me to do about it? There’s nothing out here but weak-ass HP storms. High precipitation pieces of crap,” Church mutters in disgust. “Man, this blows.”

Church throws his head back against the headrest. He’s already burned through both of the novels he packed, so now there’s nothing left to do during the day but park somewhere pretty and stare out the windshield.

The heat is not helping. Even with the windows rolled down, the sweltering air sticks his clothes to the upholstery every time he shifts in his seat. But they can’t waste gas keeping the engine on all day, so air conditioning is out of the question.

He should’ve waited until later in the storm season to schedule his PTO. At this point, navigating the land rush of tourists and amateur chasers might be preferable to having all of the South to himself if all he gets out of it is three days of tornados. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” Tucker says, interrupting his brooding.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Can’t we just drive?”

“All we do is drive,” Church retorts, but he reaches into the glovebox for a map all the same. “You just want me to turn the AC on.”

“Yeah, I’m sweating my ass off here! Can’t we at least find some trees or something to park under?”

Church tosses the map into Tucker’s lap. “Good luck finding trees in the middle of Kansas.”

He glares at the verdant flatlands spread before him. It is beautiful country, in its own rustic way; empty and lonely and endless. A gust of air picks at the blades of grass on the roadside, stirring up the smell of wildflowers and warm asphalt.

Tucker unfolds the map. “There’s got to be _something_ to do around here.”

“Yeah, right. You’re forgetting this is the part of the country that considers ‘tourism’ to be tacky roadside stands selling scrap metal statutes of eagles and cowboys and shit.”

“Uh, what about that old guy’s freaky museum of mutant livestock?” Tucker asks with a grin. “Or that big ball of yarn?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s twine, and, yeah, those are some real national treasures,” Church responds dryly.

Tucker plants an elbow on the center console, tilting the map towards Church.

“Where even are we, anyways?”

Church mirrors Tucker’s position to get a closer look and, in the process, accidentally brushes against his shoulder. He clears his throat and readjusts. It takes only a short moment for Church to find their approximate location.

“There’s some green stuff over here,” Tucker points out, gesturing across the state border. Then, he releases a delighted gasp. “Dude! There’s a place called Climax Springs! We have to go!”

Church grimaces. “Are we really at the point where we’re basing our navigational decisions on sex puns?”

“Uh, what else are we going to base it on? You said it yourself, there’s nothing out here but little rainclouds. And we have the time...”

Tucker shrugs, his smooth skin grazing the space beneath Church’s sleeve. Church scans the dismally cheery sky, trying not to get distracted by the contact as he thinks it over. A bead of sweat builds under his shirt and crawls down his spine. Some random spring in the forest does sound pretty fucking refreshing right now.

Mistaking his silence for hesitance, Tucker continues.

“Look, we can either stay here and wait for something to come up or you can bitch about the weather somewhere sexy and green. You don’t get to do both.”

“It’s, like, five hours away,” Church protests. “It’ll be dark by the time we get there.”

“Then we’ll go night swimming,” Tucker says flatly.

Church glowers at him for a moment. He really doesn’t want to spend the rest of the day driving, but he doesn’t want to spend it sitting in the parked car either, especially if Tucker’s just going to be whining the whole time.

“I swear to God, Climax Springs better be worth five fucking hours—”

Tucker cheers and lightly punches the car roof, letting the map sag over in his lap.

“—And you’re paying for gas,” Church finishes.

Tucker waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’ll thank me later when we’re out of this heat and you’re not so crabby.”

“I’m not crabby,” Church grumbles, releasing the parking brake and shoving his key into the ignition. “And wear your seatbelt, man, how many times do I have to tell you that?”

Tucker rolls his eyes and tugs on the seatbelt. Church waits until he hears the click before turning over the motor.

“I seriously don’t know how nature hasn’t killed you off yet.”

“I don’t know how you haven’t succumbed to old age yet, _dad_.”

“I will crash this car right now.”

“What are you going to crash into? There’s no trees around!”

“I think I saw some cows a couple miles back.”

Climax Springs does not live up to the hype. At all.

For one thing, it takes forever to find, not only because they had to decipher local road signs in the dark, but also because it turns out to be a tiny village with a population of less than one hundred people.

To top things off, it’s way too late to even begin finding an alternative place to stay the night, forcing them to park up a random service road in the woods where they can sleep in the car undisturbed. Church tosses and turns for over an hour trying to get comfortable in the reclined passenger seat, and when his mind is finally somewhere between thoughts and dreams, Tucker’s whispered voice yanks him back into consciousness.

“I guess you could say this was anti-climactic.”

“Tucker, you fucking idiot,” Church sighs. “Go to sleep.”

“…Sheesh, someone’s a tough crowd.”

Church isn’t sure if he gets any sleep that night, or if he just zones out to the sound of bullfrogs until the sun rises. It’s barely seven, but it’s got to be approaching eighty degrees in the car, so Church kicks off his blanket and spread eagles in the seat, making sure to roughly kick Tucker in the process. Tucker barely stirs inside his blanket cocoon, so Church keeps his leg propped up that way, hooked over what he thinks is Tucker’s hip.

He must drift off at some point, though, because he startles awake at the sound of someone rapping against his window. He scrambles upright, double-checks that the doors are locked, shoves his glasses on his face, and finds himself greeted by three cheery faces staring back at him through glass.

They look to be about Tucker’s age, maybe younger, and from the collective fashion choices of pastel and neon tees, cut-off jean shorts, and bleach blonde hair, Church is willing to say these men are neither cops nor backwoods serial-killers.

The tall one in blue waves at him. Church cranks down his window a sliver.

“Good morning!” the one in pink chirps.

“What do you want.”

Beside him, Tucker makes a series of sleepy whuffling sounds and squirms under his blanket.

“Are you going to the party?”

Church blinks.

What the fuck kind of question was that? Was this some kind of cult recruitment? Did they drive into the twilight zone last night?

Tucker, having woken, pulls the blanket from his face and sits up, blinking groggily at the strangers.

“Church, what’s going on?” he groans, rubbing a hand on his face. “The fuck is this?”

“Oh! I didn’t notice you had a friend,” the pink one says with a knowing grin. Church crosses his arms over his chest defensively, scowling at him. “Anyways, we were just camping right over there and heard you drive past our tent really late last night. So, are you going to the party? Because my friends and I could really use a ride!”

Church is about to tell them they can all fuck off when Tucker responds.

“What kind of party is at eleven in the morning? Who are you people?”

“I’m Michael!” the blue one shouts into the crack in the window, inadvertently knocking the other two in his exuberance.

The one in purple speaks for the first time, bubbling over with excitement. “It’s spring break!”

Like some kind of call and response, the three of them erupt in chorus, “ _Spring break!”_

Church and Tucker exchange a glance loaded with incredulity, fascination, and mild horror.

“Uh, yeah, you’re a few years too late for that,” Church dismisses them with a sharp wave. “Have fun walking.”

A wave of disappointment crashes over them that’s so palpable, Church nearly winces. As they turn to leave, the pink one addresses the rest.

“Aw, at this rate we’ll never make it in time for the wet T-shirt contest! Come on, guys, let’s see if we can find a ride in town.”

“Yeah, well, good lu—"

Tucker cuts Church off, his palm coming down forcefully in his lap as he leans over him to call out to their retreating figures.

“Where did you say this was, again?” 

Church’s hair flies wildly with all the windows rolled down. The sunlight is head-splittingly bright where it peeks through the foliage and spills onto his forearms. Speeding down the gravel roads, Tucker takes the turns just a bit too fast for Church’s comfort, throwing the car from third to second instead of using the brakes.

None of this is as annoying to Church as the trio of hitchhikers piled into the backseat, chattering animatedly about school and beanie babies probably and other shit he doesn’t care about. They’re almost there, he has to remind himself. Almost to the point where they can drop these people off and get the hell on their way.

“So what’s all this equipment for?” the guy in pink—Donut, Church learns—asks with wonder, leaning between the front seats to gesture to Church’s radios.

Church bats his exploratory hands away. “Don’t touch anything. It’s for weather forecasting.”

“Can’t you just watch that on the news?” he asks with a frown. Church opens his mouth to respond, but the kid’s attention has already moved on. “Oh! Take this turn, right here!”

Tucker swings the car to the right, causing them to fishtail ever so slightly. Their passengers whoop and giggle in delight.

“Take it easy, will you?” Church growls at him.

“Chill, we’re fine.”

“Wow, is that a walkie talkie?” A long arm snakes over Church’s shoulder to grab at his CB, snatching the mic off its hook in record time. “Crrcsh. This is Michael J. Caboose to Space Command; we are ready for liftoff!”

“Hey! Quit touching things!”

Church reaches back to pry the microphone from his hand. He hears Tucker fighting back laughter.

“You guys sure have a lot of cameras back here.”

Tucker’s laughter immediately stops. His spine stiffens and he twists in his seat, sending a glare over his shoulder.

“Yo, don’t fuck with those! Keep your greasy fingers off the lens!”

“Watch out!”

Tucker hits the brakes, throwing everyone forward as they skid to a slippery stop. They narrowly avoid colliding into a truck pulling off an unseen side road, trailing a large boat behind it. The other driver blares his horn and flips them the bird before slowly moving on his way. Now that they’ve stopped, Church notices they’ve entered an area full of boats on trailers, as well as large tents and tailgaters, portable barbeques and coolers full of ice.

“We’re here!” Caboose drops the CB mic between Church’s seat and the center console before practically flinging himself out the door. The one in purple follows, loudly dragging all of their camping equipment with him.

“Thanks for the ride, you guys,” Donut offers on his way out. “I thought for sure we’d never make it on time. I don’t know how we could ever repay you.”

Quick as lightning, Tucker grabs onto the doorframe and holds it in place, preventing Donut’s egress. He grins like the cat that caught the canary.

“Some gas money would be nice.”

Church nods in agreement. They’re not a bus service.

“Exactly. It took nearly an hour to get here, and now we’ve got to drive all the way back, so that’s about sixty miles, which is, what? Three gallons of gas? That’s not even including a service charge. How much does gas go for around here, again?”

Donut settles back in the seat, the boyish grin falling from his face. “Oh. Well... I don’t really have any money.”

The sincerity in that statement gives Church pause.

“Wait, seriously?” he asks. “You people don’t have a car, you’re hitching rides from strangers in the woods, and you don’t even have any cash on you? What are you going to do if you get robbed? Or kidnapped?”

Donut shrugs. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”

“Kind of hard to rob someone who doesn’t have any money,” Tucker says under his breath. He actually looks a bit irritated. “What else do you got, then?”

Church frowns, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of demanding payment from these kids. They seem closer to helpless idiots than conceited freeloaders. What are they going to do, barter for their sleeping bags?

“We’re meeting some friends here,” Donut offers, looking between Church and Tucker. “They’ll have food and stuff, and I bet they’d be happy to give you a mouthful.”

Church curls his lip at his choice of words, but Tucker’s undeterred.

“Do they have beer?”

“Probably.”

“Deal.”

Tucker releases his grip on the doorframe. Donut’s bubbly smile returns.

“Sweet! Let’s go find them, then! I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.”

When Donut departs, Church levels Tucker with a deeply irked stare.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, lowering his volume so as not to be overheard. “I don’t want to meet these guys’ friends. I don’t want to _be_ here.”

Tucker’s brows pinch together, looking half apologetic, as he should, and half impatient, like he’s gearing up to scold a difficult child.

“Church, come on, loosen up. We’re just going to grab some grub and steal some booze and leave—I _know_ you’re hungry, so don’t even act like you’re not.”

Tucker makes it sound so reasonable, like they’ll be in and out in no time. But there are women walking around their car in skimpy bathing suits and dudes shooting off roman candles at each other and Church does not miss the way Tucker’s gaze can’t hold steady on his face.

“We are n—”

Tucker gasps dramatically and slaps Church’s knee. “We are? You just said we are! I’m getting my way!”

He scrambles out the driver’s side door and out of Church’s reach, beelining for the trio waiting under the shade of a nearby tree.

“Tucker! Hey—fuck!”

Sometimes, Church forgets why he continues to spend his time with this man-child year after year. Unfortunately, that child is currently in possession of his car keys, so he has no choice but to follow him, if only to badger him to lock the doors before he decides to take off on his own.

Which, of course, happens within half an hour of arriving. Tucker’s just too goddamn short to keep track of in crowds.

Donut and the others find their friends in a tent city by the water; some huge, winding lake filled to the brim with boats and partyers, like a disgusting, floating bacchanal. True to his word, they do offer him lunch. Church puts away a couple burgers while Caboose babbles by his ear, and every time he gets the urge to bark at the kid to shut up, he stuffs another bite into his mouth.

The cove would be quite pretty if it wasn’t congested with writhing, half-naked bodies. It might even be barely approaching enjoyable if he was in any way dressed for being by the water, had sunscreen on, and could take advantage of the free alcohol. Instead, he’s hot, irritated, and has to stay sober enough to drive as soon as Tucker returns to him.

Right on cue, a fluffy-haired body collides into his side.

“Dude, dude, I met this guy with a _boat_ ,” Tucker says, like it’s the greatest thing in the world, tripping over both his feet and his words. “He said he’d take us for a ride! Let’s go!”

Tucker tugs at Church’s sleeve, but Church stands his ground, fresh annoyance eclipsing any relief he feels from seeing his companion again.

“Are you drunk?”

Tucker, unprepared for Church’s resistance, sways forwards and nearly collapses into him again.

“Psh! Maybe? That’s not revelant.”

Church does not like that answer. He crosses his arms over his chest, physically shutting out Tucker’s touch. This asshole took his keys and ditched him with a bunch of strangers, and Church is _not_ in the mood to entertain his tipsy excitement.

Picking up on Church’s mood, Tucker backs off, dropping his hands to his sides.

“Are you mad at me? Don’t be mad.”

Church responds with silence. Hurt crosses Tucker’s face.

“I was only gone for a minute.”

Tucker leans in close, resting his chin on Church’s chest to look up at him mournfully, jutting out his bottom lip in a pout. Church cups at his elbows, steadying him, and looks around nervously. Tucker’s brazen, handsy demeaner should no longer faze him at this point, but even this borderline innocent interaction feels too suggestive out here in public where anyone can see them.

At the same time, it’s all the attention Church had been craving and then some, and it soothes some of his indignation.

“ _Boats_ , Church,” Tucker continues in a quiet plea. “I’ve never been on a boat before.”

Church sighs heavily and pushes him away. “You want to go on a boat, then?”

Fingers encircle around Church’s wrist, tugging him towards the docks. From across the way, he catches eyes with Donut, who winks at him. Embarrassment and pleasure wage war inside him, and all Church can do is let himself get pulled along.

The owner of the boat is not the beat-red, leathery, beer-belly hanging out of an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt kind of guy Church was expecting. Instead, he’s yet another attractive college-aged man surrounded by a flock of attractive college-aged people.

Apparently, all this guy has been doing all day is take randos for trips on the water, trips that include driving up to various beaches so he can holler at girls to strip for him. Church has tried to see the appeal, he really has, but he’s never understood why guys turned into drooling douchebags at the sight of half-naked women.

Ignoring all that, he finds one of those big, portable waterproof radios in the back of the boat and makes himself at home next to it.

“Hey, I love that song!” a girl whines when he changes the station.

“You’re in luck then; they play it every fucking hour.”

“… _some more good news, we are currently under a ridge of high pressure and will continue to see clear skies this weekend…”_

Church sighs. He spots Tucker up at the front, laughing at something Boat Guy just said. At least he’s having a good time.

Tucker notices Church looking and grins widely. Without waiting for Boat Guy to finish talking, he makes his way through the throng of partygoers towards Church, stumbling slightly as the boat lurches under his feet.

“What’s up?” he asks when he’s close enough, gesturing to the radio.

“Same as usual.”

Tucker flops down in the space next to him. “We’ll get something soon,” he assures breezily.

As they break away from the shoreline and gain speed on the open water, Church hooks his glasses on his shirt, trying to avoid getting soaked by water droplets kicking up onto his face. Every once in a while, Boat Guy will accelerate unexpectedly, evoking a riotous cheer of “Spring Break!” from his passengers.

It is sort of fun, he’ll admit, when they go really fast out in the middle of the lake. Church’s spirits lift a little seeing Tucker laugh joyfully as he leans over the edge of the boat. They hit a swell, and Tucker’s sunglasses drop into the water.

“Ohh my god,” Church laughs as Tucker blinks dumbly at the water below. “You are such a fucking—ha! Way to go, dipshit!”

Tucker, looking put out, gives Church a drunken shove. It only makes Church laugh harder.

“Okay, now _this_ looks familiar.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying for the past seven minutes.”

“Well, I’m not the one who got us lost, am I, Tucker?”

“You guys are lost?”

“Gah!” Church and Tucker startle at the voice behind them. Whipping around, they see it belongs to one of the guys they drove here, the one dressed in purple. DeFrois or Doofus or something like that. Church kind of forgot about him.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “Did you need help finding your car?”

It takes only a fraction of a second for Church and Tucker to respond, speaking over each other.

“Ahh, we’re good.”

“No way. We’re fine.”

As if in psychic agreement, they simultaneously turn to leave.

“Really? Because you’re going the wrong way.”

They freeze.

“Oh, right,” Tucker says, feigning nonchalance. “We knew that.”

“Yeah, it’s… just over there,” Church agrees, reassessing their surroundings. Is that a different girl vomiting into a beach bag, or have they been going in circles? “Right… that way…”

“Yeah, you guys parked over there,” Doofus says unnecessarily, as if under the ridiculous impression that they needed directions. “Just through those trees, there’s a gravel road, turn left, then it’ll be the second dirt road on the right. Go past the campsites…”

Tucker lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat from his hairline. Church’s brain grinds to a halt, caught in a dazed loop starting at Tucker’s belly button, trailing down, down, down the line of curly hair to the elastic band peeking out the top of his pants. His face burns, imagining—no, remembering—his hands roaming over that skin, and he’s thunderstruck by the distant, possessive realization that he knows exactly what that feels like, and no one else here does.

Then, Tucker’s shirt falls back into place.

“Earth to Church,” he says, waving his hand in front of Church’s face. “Did you get all that?”

Church blinks back into reality, a reality in which Tucker and Doofus are watching him critically.

“I’m fine. It’s just hot out here,” he mumbles. He pushes his glasses further up his nose.

“Hm,” Tucker nods knowingly, eyes glinting with amusement.

_He knows._

Doofus, on the other hand, looks very concerned.

“You do look kind of flushed,” he says with a frown. “Heat exhaustion is a serious risk out here, you know. You and your friend should really cool down in the shade for a while before driving.”

Forget Doofus. Church decides to call this guy ‘Doc’.

“We’re _fine_ ,” he grits out. Really, how many more times does he have to say it?

“I don’t know, Church,” Tucker says with a gallic shrug, “maybe we should listen to this guy. You are very hot.”

Church glares at him in warning. Was Tucker teasing him?

“Why don’t you two rest under this tree—I’ll bring you some water,” Doc says quickly, ushering them under the nearest canopy like a mother goose.

Long having accepted his fate of being trapped here for eternity, Church sinks into the grass. Tucker sits beside him. In the shade, Church can feel heat radiating off his arms and face, the beginnings of a sunburn.

“Fuck. Really wish we brought sunscreen,” he says, kicking at some dirt. “How do I look? Do I look burnt?”

Flitting his eyes back and forth, Tucker assesses him. Church meets his gaze openly, watching for his reaction. Tucker bites his lip, then smiles tenderly.

“You’re a little pink, but it’s not bad.”

Church accepts that. He turns his attention to the others in the clearing: someone trying to curl up and sleep underneath a plastic tarp, a few girls swaying and grinding to imagined music, a boisterous group of men hauling a keg down to the water.

Tucker scoots closer to him and leans his cheek against his shoulder.

“You really wanna wait for that guy, or just head out of here?” Tucker asks. His voice sounds sleepy.

Church sinks his shoulder down a little, trying to give Tucker a better angle.

“Let’s just rest here for a minute, okay?”

Tucker nods against his shoulder. “Whatever you want, man.”

“Adverb.”

“Uh, which one is that again?”

“Ends in ‘l-y’.”

Tucker hums in thought.

“How about _slowly_?” Church offers with a smirk, after it becomes clear his companion is lost for suggestions.

“How about _ugly_?” Tucker fires back.

“That’s an adjective, moron.”

“You said ends with ‘l-y’!”

Touché. Church grunts and looks back down at the booklet in his lap.

“Type of liquid.”

“Cum,” they say at the same time, and start laughing.

“Wow, Tucker, real mature.”

“You said it, too!”

Church flicks his pencil at him, which Tucker just barely dodges.

“Hey! Driving here!”

“Get over it.” He gingerly retrieves his pencil from where it had fallen between Tucker’s legs. “Verb.”

“Banging.”

“We already have fucking.”

“Good; there’ll be some thematic consistency.”

“No. Pick another one.”

“Emasculate. Discombobulate. Acquiesce.”

“Are you just trying to pick the most annoying ones for me to spell?”

Tucker shoots him a disarming grin.

“Kinda, yeah.”

Church clears his throat.

“Um. Exclamation.”

A beat, then Tucker’s smile turns absolutely lecherous. His next words come out in a ridiculous sing-song pitch.

“Oh, Church, you’re _so big—_ ow!"

Church draws back the pencil he panic-stabbed into Tucker’s thigh. The sharp tip is broken off and the wood splintered. Whoops.

“What did I say about attacking the driver?” Tucker grouses, rubbing the spot on his jeans.

Church fights the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Pick something else.”

Instead of being cowed by his outburst, Tucker snickers.

“Supercalifragilistic—"

“Jesus, no, I’m not writing all of that,” he mutters.

Church digs around the glovebox for another pencil.

“Aw, why not?”

“There’s not enough space on the little line!”

Tucker drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Dude, I don’t know, you pick. How many more of these are there, anyways?”

Church checks the page, thinks, then jots something down.

“There’s only two more.” He looks back towards Tucker, who seems to have already gotten over being attacked with a pencil. “Another adverb.”

“A burrito that’s just sour cream. Bringing your dick to a knife fight. No! A swiss army dick!”

Church tosses his hands up in exasperation. “None of those are adverbs!”

“I’m going to go looking for snakes,” Tucker announces on a particularly lazy late afternoon.

Church grunts in acknowledgement and shovels a handful of dry cereal into his mouth. The car door slams shut as Tucker departs, the only sound for miles save a woman’s modulated voice bubbling out of radio static.

“… _high impact weather event developing off the coast of Florida. This tropical cyclone may intensify before making landfall and will likely result in strong gales in the coming week…_ ”

Church crunches on his snack, trying to pick apart the important pieces of the forecast: moisture, stability, wind shear, lift. He wishes there was an easier way to find tornados than listening to the radio or watching TV for hours on end, but he’s getting better at picking up on key terms.

Of course, there are always exceptions to rules of thumb. In the making of a tornado, a huge amount of one ingredient can almost totally compensate for lack of another. While high winds have been nosing their way up the Midwest thanks to some cyclone in the Gulf, that’s not unusual at this point in the season; instead, Church is more curious about the warm dewpoints predicted to the east in the coming days. Those are a wildcard.

But with competing hot spots in opposite directions, Church is uncertain where to go. He’ll give it another day or so, keep an eye on the consistency of region and timing for both active areas.

Uncertainty might be what he hates most about storm chasing. It doesn’t matter how confident he is in his expertise when so much of chasing is left up to luck. Why can’t he just get a sure thing once in a while?

“… _for those of you travelling south of the border in July, remember to ditch the sunglasses. The only way to safely observe an eclipse is_ …”

“Church! Hey, Church! Chuuuuurrrchhh!”

Church shuts off the radio. He must’ve been spacing out for longer than he thought.

“What?” he yells out the open window.

“Bring my camera out here!” comes Tucker’s disembodied voice. “The one with the standard prime lens!”

Church digs around in the backseat for Tucker’s camera case. He’s got three cameras ready to go, each with a different size and shape of lens.

“Standard prime,” he repeats under his breath. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Hurry up, dude!”

Church chooses one at random.

After toeing around the grass like an idiot for a while, he finds Tucker crouched by a tree, clutching a small snake to his chest, with vibrantly colored rings of red, yellow, and black running down its body. Alarm bells go off in Church’s head at the sight.

“Baby Scarlet Kingsnake,” Tucker offers. “They’re usually pretty shy—I don’t know what this little guy’s doing out here when it’s still light out. Got my camera?”

Hesitantly, Church lifts the camera. “Right here.”

Tucker looks up and chuckles. “That’s a wide-angle, but whatever.” He reaches out and clicks something on the lens. “Get a picture for me? I put it on autofocus, so just point and shoot.”

He holds up the snake, which is now wrapping itself around his wrist.

Church falters, unsure if Tucker wants a picture of just the snake, or him holding the snake. He searches his face briefly, but Tucker’s attention is centered solely on the scaly creature in his hand, engrossed in his own private excitement and glory.

Front-lit by the setting sun, the afterglow of the day tans carnelian highlights in his skin, warm chestnut and clay against a sea of green. A delicate fascination glitters in his eyes, one that Church finds completely and utterly endearing. Making a snap decision, he takes the picture.

The snake wriggles excitedly in Tucker’s grasp and strikes his hand.

“Shit! Tucker, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Tucker assures, calmly releasing the snake. “I’ve been with girls that bit harder than that.”

“Those things aren’t poisonous, right?”

Tucker straightens, dusting himself off. “Nah.”

Church reels at Tucker’s shocking indifference to the situation. “How do you know?”

Tucker quickly crosses and uncrosses his arms, looking anywhere but Church.

“Because I know what that snake was. Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘red on yellow, kill a fellow; red on black, friend of Jack’?”

Oh, great, he thinks he’ll be fine because a poem told him.

Church shakes his head. “I think there’s a first aid kit in the car.”

Tucker looks flushed now. Was that a symptom of snake poisoning?

“Dude, I’m fine, see? She’s got little teeth, they barely sunk in.”

Church snatches his proffered hand and inspects it. Tucker’s right—Church can’t even see puncture marks.

“I’d feel better if you disinfected it. Come here, let’s get back to the car.”

Tucker lets out a strange little noise of embarrassment. Too bad for him; Church doesn’t give a damn about his wounded pride.

He doesn’t actually know how to treat a snake bite, so he just pours antiseptic over the bite and keeps a close eye on Tucker until he’s certain he isn’t going to die, and then keeps watching him for a while after that. Tucker’s increasing chagrin at being ‘doctored’ is kind of hilarious to witness. By the fifth time Church pesters him to check his temperature for a 'fever', Tucker's protest comes out so squeaky that Church can no longer contain his laughter. Tucker huffs and tackles him against the open trunk, attempting to tape his mouth shut with a roll of gauze tape.

Louisiana gives them an expensive souvenir in the form of a speeding ticket while racing towards a tornado warning in the middle of the night.

They miss the tornado, but the decaying mesocyclone is unexpectedly fun to watch. Above them, a constant rippling of lightning illuminates thick mammatus clouds, electric veins pulsing to the tune of a frantic heartbeat. Around them, hundreds of fireflies dance in open grassland like a flickering starfield poured out over the earth.

A large arc of lightning breaks free and snaps towards the ground, striking a tree barely a hundred yards ahead of them.

“Oh, shit,” Tucker breathes in wonder, his camera going off in time with the strike.

The afterimage of the flash sears into Church’s retinas and galvanizes adrenaline to rush into his chest.

“Did you get that?” he asks.

“I think so.”

Up ahead, the tree flickers as fresh flame licks up its side. Tucker takes another picture.

“That was fucking close,” Church says.

“I know, right? Holy fuck, I really hope I got that.”

Tucker pries open his camera to switch out rolls of film, a huge, toothy grin on his face. Church palms the gear shift, calculating their odds of getting hit by the next strike.

From the corner of his eye, he sees something unusual—a burst of red in the darkness.

“Tucker, Tucker, look!” Church smacks Tucker’s arm, uncaring that he nearly makes Tucker drop his film.

“What?”

“It’s—just watch. Look over there! Fuck, where’s your camcorder?”

“It’s in the backseat. What’s going on? I don’t see anything.”

Church feels around blindly for Tucker’s camera, his eyes glued to the sky. Finally, his fingers encircle it, just as another splash of color flares above the clouds.

“What was that?”

Church fumbles with the camcorder. His hands are shaking with excitement.

“I read about this recently, it’s called ‘cloud-to-space lightning’,” Church explains. “No one knew if it was real or not until a couple years ago when some guy—one in a million fucking odds—caught it on camera by _accident._ Hardly anyone’s been able to photograph something like this since then.”

“For real?” Tucker leans over the center console and into Church’s personal space, trying to get a better angle at the mysterious red lightning. “Shit, I gotta get in on this, then. How much do you think those assholes at the WPC would pay me for a photo?”

Church fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Seriously, dude? This is groundbreaking stuff! Did Edward Lorenz publish his discovery of deterministic nonperiodic flow because he thought it would make him money?”

“Uhm—”

“No! He did it to contribute to the scientific process!”

“Well, maybe he didn’t do it for money, but I sure as hell do. Got to pay those bills somehow.”

Church tilts his head towards Tucker—a gesture of acknowledgement only, as he refuses to tear his eyes away from the source of the colors. He’s only distantly aware that their dumb conversation is being recorded.

“Normally, I would agree with you. But this is important shit, man. Show some respect.”

Behind him, Tucker snickers softly.

“What?”

“You are such a nerd, dude,” Tucker says softly, without any malice in his voice.

Church elbows him blindly, drawing out a soft ‘oof’.

They stay like this for a while, Church recording while Tucker tries to capture the ghostly tendrils on film. Church has never seen anything like it; huge splotches of electrical discharge winking in and out of existence, like ephemeral neon forests in the sky.

A loud crack rips through the air, flooding the Earth in brilliant, blinding white.

When the lightning strike fades, Church can no longer make out his dashboard, the lights on his radio, or his steering wheel. He can’t see the fireflies outside his car. He’d probably be blind to his own hand if he waved it in front of his face.

Remembering his hands, he realizes the hand not holding the camcorder is gripping Tucker’s arm rather tightly, and that Tucker, in turn, is squeezing his thigh. Church turns to him, trying to blink away the fog of black burned onto his retinas. He senses rather than sees Tucker's proximity, feeling the breath on his face when Tucker lets out a nervous laugh.

Church laughs, too, and releases his grip on Tucker's arm.

Vision recovering rapidly, the outline of Tucker’s face begins to emerge from the dark, even closer than Church expected. Without warning, Tucker surges forward and kisses him. The kiss is slightly off center, Tucker’s nose crushing into Church’s cheek and slightly displacing his glasses. It lasts barely long enough for Church to taste the wetness lingering on his lips when Tucker pulls away.

He chuckles again, confused. “What was that for?” he whispers.

Some vague movement stirs the shadows, like Tucker is shrugging. “Nothing.”

The hand slips from his thigh.

How Tucker manages to find a pot dealer within the time it takes him to get gas, Church will never know. All he knows is that this is the best fucking barbeque he’s ever had.

Today is the twentieth of April, which means it’s been seven days since they’ve last seen a severe storm. Seven days of busts. An entire week with no tornadic activity. Well, until today, that is, after Tucker disappears to hunt down coffee and comes back with a bag full of weed.

They had balanced Tucker’s camera case on the console between their seats, parked behind a blue movie theater (because who goes out to watch porn at two in the afternoon, anyways?), making their own little twisters rise out of smoke cast onto the cool, faded leather. The car became so hot-boxed that when they finally got out to catch some air, smoke had billowed out of the open doors like a chimney.

Now they’re sat on the hood of the car, surrounded by steaming piles of food in Styrofoam and tinfoil—fried green tomatoes, chicken fingers, pulled pork, brisket, chitlins, cheese straws. Tucker, being the slightly more sober one at the time, had been in charge of ordering, and, based on the amount of shit they got out of it, Church is pretty sure he just walked up to the counter and read the menu verbatim.

Church takes a long sip of their shared neon blue slushy and tries to guess the flavor. It was called something like ‘electric freeze’ or ‘jazzberry’ or some shit.

Whatever the hell it is, it is delicious. Even better paired with the overindulgence of grease and salt he’s digging into. No wonder the South was so into patriotism and shit, when they’ve got this to eat every day. It suddenly makes so much sense to him: America—fuck yeah.

Then again, maybe he’s just stoned.

He takes another exploratory sip of slushy. What is this flavor? He needs to know. The world needs to know.

He gets distracted from his analysis when Tucker reaches over and plucks a couple of fried pickles from his lap. Stuffing them into his mouth, he takes only a second to chew before continuing talking about… well, something. He’s been talking about something for a while now. Eh, it’s probably too late for Church to try and pay attention, anyways.

Instead, Church gives the illusion of listening by paying rapt attention to the movements of Tucker’s mouth, the dimpling of his cheeks, the way his lips curl over snaggletooth canines, while the rest of his teeth are perfectly straight and white. How they contrast with his tongue, now stained blue, darting out every so often as he speaks. Church squeezes the slushy in his slowly numbing hand, causing cold condensation to collect and spill over his fingers. Would Tucker’s mouth still be cold?

With a jolt, he realizes Tucker has stopped talking and is now staring at him expectantly. Church purses his lips thoughtfully and nods as if in agreement to whatever the last thing Tucker said was. Tucker just squints at him.

“Were you even listening?”

Church’s jaw goes slack. His sluggish brain works to replay something, anything, Tucker had just said, but is coming up quite blank.

“Uh.”

Then he grins and presses his cold hand against the back of Tucker’s neck. Tucker squeals and jerks away, nearly falling off the car hood and into the dirt with the force of the action. Church laughs.

It’s dark outside when they roll up to the grocery store, on the prowl for road food for the coming days. It’s one of those discount grocers that only carries things neighboring outlets couldn’t sell, which means everything’s cheap but there’s also no telling what’ll be in stock.

Church is still pretty baked, so instead of walking, he climbs into their cart and takes a seat in the basket. Tucker bitches about how heavy he is, but pushes him around anyways, like Church knew he would.

They wander aimlessly like this up and down the aisles, never once coming across another customer, let alone an employee, and have a partially-giggled debate on whether or not the store is actually closed and if they’re accidentally trespassing. But all the lights are on and buzzing, and the radio is playing softly across the ceiling, some jarring juxtaposition of Marvin Gaye and Christian country songs.

They skip over the cans of whole chickens and curried alligator; Church plucks a few containers of sardines and Tucker picks out a can of fruit that looks like testicles with exactly zero English on the label. Church sinks his back into the sharp metal framing of the cart and rants about whatever crosses his mind: a book he read recently, the differences between scrum and kanban, why the original Star Trek was better than The Next Generation. They conclude that topic with Star Wars being better, because of the laser swords.

Church wonders how it’s possible to be this bored and content at the same time.

“Yo, who is DJing this grocery store?” Tucker whispers, pressing his laughter into the back of his hand. He tosses a box of cereal into Church’s lap.

“I don’t know, man, but I think they’re higher than we are. I’m pretty sure they just gave up and started playing two separate jazz solos on top of each other.”

They’re still laughing when they reach the checkout, where the tired looking girl who rings them up glances between them and smiles, like she’s in on the joke, too.

“A wily breed—squirrelly transmission—”

Tucker circles around the bumper, camcorder poised towards the now exposed wheel hub on the front tire, nearly knocking into Church on the way.

“In an act of self-preservation, this beast randomly deployed its hubcaps into traffic!”

Church snorts at Tucker’s cheesy nature-documentary persona. Sometimes, Church thinks he just does this shit to make him laugh. Smiling, Tucker tosses his video camera onto the backseat through the open window, then opens the driver’s side door, feeling around for the latch that pops open the gas cover.

“Careful,” Church admonishes, reaching over him to save his car door from slamming into the fuel pump.

Tucker ducks under Church’s arm, unaffected.

“Oh, no,” he says in faux horror, “I almost dinged the door on your fourteen-dollar car.”

“Fuck you, this is a good car.”

Tucker turns around to smirk at him. “I’m not a mechanic or anything, but I’m pretty sure when they built this car, they lifted the suspension off some poor kid’s little red Radio Flyer. That last dirt road felt like someone’s dad was dragging us down their driveway.”

Church shakes his head at that, using the motion to hide the slight smile playing at his lips.

“Why don’t you wash the ‘beast’s windows while I’m inside. I could barely see out of them this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Tucker says with a mock salute, and Church figures he’s got a fifty-fifty chance of a follow-through. Either way, he leaves him by the car and walks into the gas station.

Finding this gas stop had been a bit of a miracle. They’d been deep into one of Mississippi’s scenic byways and Church hadn’t remembered to check the fuel gauge until the warning light came on. Church was certain their day would end with them hitching rides off the side of the road, but, thankfully, they came across this place before that happened.

Weirdly enough, it wasn’t the rough roads of bumfuck nowhere that stole his hubcap, but a busy interstate in Birmingham earlier that day, and for absolutely no discernable reason at all. Yeah, it sucks, but Church finds he doesn’t care all that much. He’ll be mad about it when he’s back in Houston.

While paying for gas, Church also buys a pudding pop from the little freezer inside. He’s pleased to see Tucker cleaning the windows when he reemerges. Church strolls around the small building, eating his frozen treat in the sunshine. It’s perfect weather for anyone but them, but he decides there’s something he likes about it today. The smell of gasoline and dairy farms fills the breeze, along with the chirping of birds and insects nearby.

When he returns to the car, Tucker is just finishing up filling the tank. He acknowledges Church with an upwards nod.

“Want me to drive, yet?” he asks.

Church shrugs and tosses him the keys. “Sure. Why not.”

He goes in for another taste of his pudding pop, which has begun to melt in the mild spring air. When he turns back, Tucker is looking at him strangely, an unreadable softness crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Careful, dude.”

Church laughs self-consciously, and licks at a bead of melting popsicle sliding down towards his hand.

“What?”

Tucker closes the space between them and curls his hand over Church’s, pulling the popsicle towards his face. Slowly, deliberately, without breaking eye contact, he wraps his lips around it and sucks it like a dick. The popsicle doesn’t stand a chance inside Tucker’s freakishly hot mouth. Immediately, it begins to liquify and dribble towards his fingers, curling over the bone in his wrist.

Church doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. It’s such a goofy, over-the-top _Tucker_ thing to do, and still his face flushes with the intensity of it. In one broad stroke, Tucker licks up the sweetness trailed between forefinger and thumb, but not before it drips onto the inside of Church’s wrist. It tickles.

Church is so caught up in the sudden squirmy, fervent sensations twisting up inside him, he doesn’t notice at first when Tucker’s gaze drifts to something behind him.

He looks over his shoulder. Five men are standing around a rusting pickup parked by the gas station. Church hadn’t noticed them earlier, but all of them have noticed him and Tucker.

Uncomfortable, Church tosses the popsicle into the garbage. It was mostly eaten anyways. He feels the weight of multiple stares pressing into his back.

“Let’s dip,” Tucker says lightly, and heads for the driver’s side door. Church follows his lead.

Tucker wastes no time pulling the seat forward and dropping the steering wheel down to his lap, but to Church, it feels like it takes forever. Neither of them say anything as they drive out of the gas station. Neither of them point out the rusting pickup that clings to their rearview window like a clot of dirt for the next half hour.

About fifty miles down the road, Tucker breaks the oppressive silence.

“Sorry.”

Church rubs his wrist against his pant leg, still feeling somewhat sticky. His movements are sluggish, not quite in sync with his brain. He feels heavy. Tired.

“Not your fault.”

He hesitates for only a fraction of a second, and flicks on the radio.

_"He’s all I got in this world, but he’s all the man that I—”_

Church groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes this became way longer than I had anticipated! hopefully the next chapter won't take so long  
> if you liked, let me know? :)


	3. Call of Ktulu

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, sh—”

The car slides. Church feels a tug under his palms as the road fights him for control of the wheel, front axle growling when he corrects it.

“Can we slow it down a bit?” Tucker pleads, white-knuckle grip on the ‘oh shit’ handle above the window.

“We’re out of position!” Church shouts back, pressing down harder on the gas pedal.

Outside their windshield, it could almost be a moonlit night. But that’s just the illusion of the monstrous black clouds looming above them, blotting out the midday sun. It skews Church’s perception of time, gives him a sense of urgency like watching the end of the world.

For something born of the sky, this storm is downright chthonic.

Church tries for a joke. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little hydroplaning.”

He can practically hear his companion grimace. “Dude.”

Just ahead of them, an inky vortex starts to form behind dark curtains of rain. Slender. Powerful. _Hungry._

And they were on the wrong side of it.

“Fucking hell,” Church says to himself.

The gas pedal is flush with the floor now. But, no. There’s not enough time to go around.

Up ahead, he sees a crossroads. It’ll be risky, but if he times it just right—

“Alright, Tucker. You ready?”

Church eases up on the acceleration.

Tucker casts him a wary look. “Ready for what?”

He grips the wheel as tight as he can with shaking, sweaty hands.

“We’re going to punch the core.”

“What?! No, no, nonono—”

They reach the crossroads. Church veers them to the side.

He overshoots it. They drift sideways through the mud, and are thrown up a berm. Thankfully, the forward momentum keeps them going long enough to avoid getting stuck.

“Church!”

“You’re fine! We’re fine!”

It’s a straight shot into the mesocyclone now.

He knows it’s dangerous. The core of a thunderstorm is nothing but a treacherous white-out zone of violent winds, torrential precipitation, and deadly hail. Normally, he would avoid core punching at all costs, but...

Who wouldn’t take the risk, knowing there’s going to be tornados on the other side?

“This isn’t going to work, asshole!” Tucker shouts, sounding like he was getting ready to climb into Church’s lap and slam down on the brakes himself. “We need to keep going east, we don’t have enough room!”

“It’s too late for that,” Church tells him.

They’re almost at the storm’s edge. If Church keeps going fast enough, they’ll have plenty of space to break through ahead of the hook.

He punches the hazard lights on.

“Church! It’s going to roll right over us!”

He doesn’t stop.

Plunging into the storm is a bit like driving off a cliff into the ocean.

Rain and hail assaults them from all sides. It’s so dark. Even at their highest setting, the windshield wipers are useless. They’re splattering mud at sixty miles per hour and he can hardly make out the road ahead of them. Though he can’t see it, Church can _feel_ the tornado nearby—the strength of its updraft, the way it howls like a nightmare.

Arms locked against the heavy winds, visibility at zero, all he has is blind faith in his ability to keep going straight. He knows how this works—as long as they can avoid the worst of the hail, they’ll be out of the woods in no time. Part of him is sure of it.

The other parts are completely, overwhelmingly terrified.

“If the hail gets bigger than golf balls, I’ll turn around,” Church says. He’s not sure whether he’s trying to reassure Tucker or himself.

“We’re going to fucking die,” Tucker mutters, words nearly drowned by the _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of ice pelting metal.

The muscles in Church’s thighs twitch, self-preservation duking it out with conviction for control of his body. Kill the gas. Hit the brakes. _Keep going._

By some fucking miracle, his leap of faith pays off. The storm spits them out the other side.

Church feels lightheaded from how quickly the tension drains from his body. Was he holding his breath that entire time?

“Jesus Christ.” Tucker turns around in his seat, looking back at the death trap they just escaped.

“Told you we’d be fine,” Church says, though his voice wavers precariously.

He turns onto a paved road, once again putting them parallel to the mesocyclone’s path. It’s grown even larger somehow, swollen to nearly half the size of the sickly grey sky, feeding on the debris it rips wildly from the ground.

And there in the middle—the low contrast silhouette of the tornado.

“Holy fuck,” Church breathes.

The thumping of his own heart is deafening in his ears, nearly as erratic as the flying rain. Was the thunderstorm getting bigger? Or was it getting closer?

“Ngh! Go, go, go!” he urges his engine.

“Oh my god, we are so fucking fucked—”

Light flares out of the darkness, electricity catching like fire in the wind as the tornado crashes over a large powerline.

Church has to split his attention between navigating the slippery road and the tornado’s rapid advance. He takes the next random outlet road he sees, praying that it doesn’t loop back around. For a moment, he wonders if one of their windows got blown out from hail at some point, as he’s starting to feel absolutely drenched.

“I think it’s pulling off!”

Church risks a glance behind him. It was impossible to tell what the thunderstorm was doing. He tries another branching gravel road, one that takes them up a small hill.

Sure enough, from atop the hill, he sees the storm clearly peeling away.

He drives until he runs out of road, at the edge of a dusty outcropping. In one, two, three seconds, the twister lifts up off the valley floor, retracting back into the shadowy mass that birthed it. Church watches, entranced, as the anvil flattens and blurs. It’s like watching the face of death take up a mask, disguising itself as just another monsoon shower roaming the desert.

It was over.

Tucker socks him in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Don’t do that again,” he says sharply.

Tucker’s face is uncharacteristically stern, with shoulders set stiffly beneath the sweat-darkened neckline of his tee. Church, on the other hand, can’t feel his face at all, and is certain his entire body is visibly vibrating with how badly he’s shaking.

From the corner of his eye, he registers a collection of crescent shaped grooves freshly pressed into the faux leather of the passenger seat. Church can’t help himself; he lets out a laugh.

“What, effortlessly pull off a totally badass core punch? Break our dry streak in the most epic way possible?”

Tucker smacks him again. “We got lucky, you crazy fuck!”

“Psh, that wasn’t luck!” Church says. “That was all me, baby!”

Tucker’s eyes flash dangerously and he grits his teeth, causing the muscles in his jaw to jump.

_Goddamn, anger looks good on him._

In the next instant, Church’s mouth is colliding with Tucker’s, the rough of their tongues scraping together deliciously. A desperate flurry of hands pulls their bodies together, unclicking seatbelts and parting clothing with the urgency of an EMS team. Tucker’s camera, forgotten in his lap, drops to the footwell with a heavy thud, and then Tucker is spidering his way onto Church’s lap.

Tucker’s ass hits the horn when he straddles him, but Church pays it no mind. All he cares about is how it feels when he shoves his fingers into Tucker’s curls, the way Tucker trembles in Church’s arms, and the heady smell of their collective fear and arousal filling the spaces between them.

“You’ve got condoms in the glovebox, right?” Tucker asks into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Church breathes. Then, realizing that’s not an answer, “Yeah. But, I—we shouldn’t,” he protests, even as his hands sweep up Tucker’s spine. “Not here.”

“Let’s go back to the motel.”

What an excellent idea. Church tries to let go, but instead finds his fingers sinking deeper under the waistband of Tucker’s boxers. He needs to get Tucker off him so he can go fuck him, but he can’t let Tucker off him because he wants to fuck him. Stupid brain.

A wet pain sinks into the crook of his neck, shooting sparks across his vision, making him choke on a hiss of ecstasy. He nudges at Tucker’s cheek with his nose.

“Hey, now. No bite marks allowed, remember?”

“You fucking deserve it, you know,” Tucker murmurs against his frantic pulse.

Then his mouth is on Church again, sucking sweetly on the spot he just bit. An apology, maybe. It feels so fucking good—

He pulls Tucker off by a fistful of hair. “And hickeys are definitely not allowed.”

Straining against Church’s grip, Tucker flashes him a cocky smirk. “Killjoy.”

Tucker disentangles Church’s hands from his hair and pins them above his head. A full-body shiver racks through him when the cheeky bastard licks a trail of saliva from Church’s cheek, over the stem of his glasses, and up into his hairline. Seconds later, Church feels the seatbelt wrapping around his wrists.

“You little shit,” Church huffs. “That’s it.”

Wrenching his wrists free, he twists them, shoving Tucker to the side. Tucker’s back arcs as he falls over the center console, shirt riding up to his chest. His right knee hits the radio, knocking it to the side and somehow cranking the volume.

“ _—ay-day, may-day. Som... ick up—”_

Both of them freeze.

“Is that... Simmons?” Church asks over the breaking static.

“Who cares? Kiss me,” Tucker demands, tugging him in for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that’s more breathing each other’s air than anything.

Right. Someone else can deal with the Reds’ bullshit.

Connected by the face now, Church settles himself between Tucker’s thighs. It’s not the most comfortable position for either of them, but he likes the way Tucker’s hips are tilted upwards, forcibly trapped right at the height of Church’s groin.

Tucker’s tongue lazily swirls circles around Church’s, sending a slow drip of red-hot pleasure down to his core. Man, Tucker’s lips are soft.

_“—Dear God, if anyone... switch to channel two-seven-one—”_

Tucker captures the tip of Church’s tongue between his lips and gently sucks. Church nearly sobs.

His hand greedily swipes up the plane of Tucker’s exposed belly to tweak a nipple under his shirt. Tucker throws his head back with his responding moan.

Moving his attention over his jaw, down his neck, Church yanks Tucker’s shirt collar aside with a rough fist. Tucker gasps and twitches as Church’s stubble scratches his sensitive skin. All his squirming does is worsen the ache in Church’s stomach, until he’s pawing to rip aside every piece of offending material that separated their flesh.

_“—tranded in a goddamn cow ...eed assistance... assholes!”_

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Church finally explodes, drawing back. He grabs the CB’s antenna and pries it outwards. “One of you better be fucking dying,” he snarls into the mic.

It takes way too long, but they eventually figure out that the Reds, being the idiots they are, had gotten themselves stuck in the mud somewhere barely on the edge of their broadcasting range. It takes even longer for Church and Tucker to navigate to their position in the growing dark, and longer still to convince the Reds to meet them halfway when they see how bad the road conditions are. They’re the ones rescuing their asses; Church sure as hell isn’t going to risk getting his car stuck, too.

Of course, the Reds find a way to fuck up being rescued. The rain has picked up again by the time Grif shows up, alone, soaked to the bone with mud up to his knees, practically gasping for air from the short walk.

“You’re looking a little rough there, buddy,” Tucker comments.

“Fuck—ah—you.”

“Where the hell is the rest of your team?” Church asks over the seat, grimacing at all the mud Grif tracks in his car.

“Sent me,” he pants. “To go into town. Get a tow.”

Church shakes his head, disbelieving. “No tow company is going to want to drive all the way out here.”

Grif leans forward so that he’s positioned between the front seats. “Just because your ghetto sled can’t take a little mud—”

“My car is fine,” Church snaps. “But it’s already getting dark, and even if someone was willing to come out here in the rain, you know how much an off-road recovery is going to cost you? I’ll give you a hint: it’s a lot.”

Grif sighs heavily, raking his fingers through greasy locks of hair. “What else are we supposed to do? Sarge won’t leave his precious Warthog out there, even for the night. And as much as I don’t give a fuck what he does, I’d feel kind of bad leaving Simmons all alone with him right now.”

Church growls to himself. Why is this suddenly his problem? He should’ve just turned the radio off and fucked Tucker in a field when he had the chance.

“There was a farm back in the foothills,” the man of his thoughts himself points out. “We drove past it on the way here. It had a bunch of big tractors out front that might be able to tow you out. We could try there first?”

He looks to Church for confirmation.

Church licks his lips thoughtfully. It was actually a pretty good idea.

Instead of admitting that, he restarts the engine and says, “It’s better than nothing, I guess.”

Grif deflates in relief, sinking back into his seat.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the windshield wipers beating rhythmically against the rain. Church is once again reminded of all the things he and Tucker could be doing right now if they hadn’t taken the damn high road.

Glancing in his direction, Church is surprised to find Tucker already looking back at him, dark eyes shining like they’re reflecting Church’s thoughts. Tucker’s lips quirk ever so slightly in a secret smile, effortlessly rekindling the sparks of desire lying dormant beneath his skin. Church inhales sharply through his nose.

As soon as Grif is gone—

Church quickly turns his attention back to the road, fighting off a giddy smile of his own.

“Sooo,” Grif offers into the weird silence. “In a couple days Storm Prediction Center said there’s risk of severe storms up near the Oklahoma-Kansas border. You guys going?”

“Obviously,” Church says. His voice betrays him, coming out unusually rough. “You?”

If Grif notices anything off, he doesn’t mention it. “We were planning on it. We’ll see how beat up our car is from today.” Church hears him stretching out in the backseat. “How much longer are you guys going to be out chasing?”

Church feels Tucker’s eyes on him again. He swallows, hating the reminder.

“Uh, I’ve got to get back to work next week.”

Grif clicks his tongue. “Sucks to be you.”

“What about you?” Tucker asks, a bit quickly.

“I dunno yet. Haven’t bought a ticket back yet. I just need to be back in Hawaii by July.”

“Why? What’s in July?”

A large farmhouse comes into view, and Church pulls onto its driveway, catching the attention of a gruff-looking man sitting out on the porch. He slows down as the man makes his way towards them.

“A solar eclipse is happening near my hometown on the eleventh. I want to see it.”

“You’re going to keep chasing until July?” Tucker asks incredulously. “Don’t you have a job?”

“Of course I have a job, I’m a—oh, hold on.”

The man reaches their car, and Grif cranks down the window to address him.

It doesn’t take long to explain their situation. Turns out the Reds got stuck in the middle of the man’s onion field, which Church finds wonderfully hilarious.

“Did you see the private property signs?” the man asks, which even Church knows is a politely coded way of saying, ‘you know you’re an asshole, right?’.

Grif doesn’t take the hint. “Gee, we must’ve missed them when we were running for our lives. You did happen to notice the big-ass twister that passed by a couple hours ago? All huge? Twisty?”

The man narrows his eyes at that. “Did you see the no trespassing signs?”

“Look, the map said there was a road, we took the road, next thing we know, we’re stuck in prairie oblivion with a hundred fifty mile per hour tornado on our ass. Now can you help us get out of your hair or not?”

In the end, he offers Grif a tow for the low price of a hundred bucks.

Being the good samaritans they are, Church and Tucker even decide to wait nearby in case anything goes wrong. Just so happens that waiting gives them plenty of time to fill. What a good deed they’re doing, Church thinks, making out with Tucker on the hood of his car like a horny teenager skirting the edge of curfew.

Night has fully set in when the tractor returns, now pulling a pathetically mud-encrusted red car behind it. Church walks over to inspect the damage. No wonder they had gotten stuck; the Red’s vehicle was modified to be good against tornados, low to the ground and armor-plated, rendering it useless in mud.

He can hear Sarge and Simmons inside, bemoaning the humiliation of needing help, while he idly draws dicks into the dried mud that caked the car doors. It makes him feel better about his own now filthy backseat.

While he does this, he watches the exchange unfolding nearby.

Tractor Man hops off his tractor and steps up to Grif, clearing his throat pointedly.

“Oh, right, uh,” Grif opens his wallet and stares into it. “Well...”

Tucker leans over Grif’s shoulder.

“Christ,” he mutters. He takes a five and a ten from Grif’s wallet, then hands Tractor Guy multiple twenties from his own wallet.

Tractor Guy grunts and climbs back onto his tractor.

Grif hooks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to his retreating form. “What ever happened to Southern hospitality, am I right?”

His expression wavers at Tucker’s unimpressed look. He looks over at Church, then back to Tucker.

“Fine, fine,” he finally cracks, “I owe you guys one, alright?”

“You owe us big time,” Tucker corrects.

“Whatever,” Grif says in parting.

Their dumb red car, now covered in penises, lays scratch as it drives away.

Coffee and orange juice. That’s what they always order here.

Normally a trip to Waffle House is only justified after a particularly amazing storm, when they stumble through the doors well past midnight, drunk on adrenaline (and sometimes liquor). That isn’t the case in Andover, with its cheery kite-flying weather right outside their window.

To the unknowing, it might have seemed like a day heralding summer. But just yesterday, the risk of significant tornados Grif mentioned had spiked to a ten percent chance for this area. And early this morning, a loaded gun warning was issued nearby.

If Church were an optimist, he might call this a preemptive celebration. But for now, he’ll just say it’s been a long trip and they deserve some fucking pancakes, alright?

Their waitress is an attractive young woman, something Church wouldn’t have even noticed if Tucker hadn’t first. Church catches the way his gaze lingers on her frame for a second longer than necessary when she comes by to take their orders. It burrows under his skin in an unpleasant way, so he speaks brusquely to her so that she leaves more quickly.

“Hey,” Tucker says after the waitress walks off. He unwraps his straw and drops into his cup. “We still have time to hit up a camera store today, right? I’m running low on film.”

Distracted, Church has to run that through his mind a couple times before it makes sense. He’d completely forgotten.

“Right. Sure.”

“Sweet. I guess I’ve been kind of trigger-happy this trip.” Tucker rests his chin in his hand, tapping a finger against the table top. “I’m actually really stoked to see how some of these turn out.”

Church nods absently, entertaining himself by threading Tucker’s paper straw wrapper around his fingers. “How long does that take?”

Tucker purses his lips in thought.

“With the amount of film I’ll be bringing back, probably the whole afternoon. Maybe longer, since I’ve got some other things still queued up in the dark room. Just a personal project,” he clarifies at Church’s questioning look. He waves a hand dismissively. “I got all the time-sensitive stuff for clients out of the way before we left.”

Church scratches at his jaw. Once again, he’s reminded of how little he knows about Tucker’s day-to-day life. It’s hard to imagine him outside the context of storm chasing; he tries to visualize it, but all he can see is Tucker in the passenger seat of his car, or watching the weather from the edge of a motel bed, or standing alone in an empty gravel parking lot.

Sudden curiosity compels him to pry.

“What kind of clients?”

Tucker looks briefly taken aback by Church’s interest. He blinks, then shrugs.

“Anyone who wants pictures taken, I guess. Like, before I left, I was finishing printing for this chick’s wedding shoot. God, she was such a bitch. Wanted me to follow her around all day, snapping her fingers at me like a dog—I’m telling you, Church, I watched this woman walk into traffic in her wedding dress and scream at cars to stop at her feet because it was her ‘big day’.”

That draws out a chuckle from Church. “Sounds like a pleasant woman.”

“That’s not even the half of it. She had all these specific requirements for, like, what angles and lighting she wanted, and threw a fit when I tried to get any candid shots of her or anyone else. Makes no difference to me, but it’s kind of my job to capture the whole event, not get three hundred pictures of the bride from the same two angles.”

He pauses to sip his juice.

“Then, after it was done, her and the wedding planner kept trying to haggle me down by more than half the price we agreed. She hadn’t even seen the pictures yet and was trying to tell me my time was worth less than minimum wage.”

“What a bitch,” Church agrees, incensed on Tucker’s behalf. “They paid you in the end, though, right?”

“Yeah, _eventually_. I had to hold her precious wedding photos hostage before she finally decided to uphold her end of the contract. Don’t ever work for brides, man, they’re the worst.”

Tucker shakes his head in a ‘what are you going to do’ kind of way, and leaves it at that. Church begins to shred the straw wrapper into tiny, rumpled pieces. Feeling the conversation lull, he scrapes for something to contribute.

“You get hired for a lot of weddings, then?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a big one. I do other events, too—parades, music festivals, charity fundraiser things. Sometimes at those black-tie shin-digs, they’ll even give me guest privileges. Let me eat their fancy hors d’oeuvres and shit.”

Church snorts. He flicks a paper wad at Tucker. “Somehow, I can’t picture you fitting in at a place like that.”

Tucker scoffs in mock offence. “Excuse you, I look damn fine in a tux.”

Averting his eyes, Church takes a quick sip of still-too-hot coffee. _That_ , he can imagine quite well, and he gets the feeling Tucker’s not wrong.

“Let’s see, what else… the occasional high school picture day or boring company headshot. Oh! I covered an elementary school science fair recently. That was really fun.” Tucker ducks his head, smiling down at his lap. “I like kids.”

Church smiles, too, now imagining Tucker sitting in one of those comically miniature school chairs, surrounded by eager little kids all clamoring to have their picture taken. He fits the scene surprisingly well, Church thinks. And why not? Tucker’s supportive and playful and pacific—nothing like Church’s own father had been. _No,_ Church thinks, _Tucker would make a great dad someday._

Church’s smile turns wistful, then drains from his face completely.

Why does that revelation feel like a knot in his stomach?

He clears his throat. “So, what’s your personal project?”

When Tucker looks back up, his eyes brighten further. It’s his tell. He can pretend all he likes that he’s too cool to be passionate about shit, but his eyes give him away every single time.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” he says, shrugging again, “Butch and I are just doing this series together on all these random ghost towns in Texas. You’ve met him before, right? Butch Flowers?”

“That weird hippy you share a studio with?”

Tucker grins. “So, you _have_ met?”

“The first time I ever came to pick you up in Austin, remember? He gave me a ‘good luck rock’ and told me I should work on making my aura ‘less grey’ so you could see me better in a storm.”

To that, Tucker actually jerks back in shock. “Um, rude. Clearly, your aura is a bright, lemony yellow.”

“Damn straight. I’m the fucking epitome of sunshine.” He punctuates this by taking a swig of coffee.

Tucker giggles. “That you are,” he hums in amusement, following the movement of Church’s cup with his eyes. He seems to lose his focus for a moment before coming back to his senses. “Anyways, we’ve been going around looking for different ghost towns, and we found this one place up in the panhandle—not on _any_ maps.

"Super weird place. Just these two concrete buildings in the middle of a box canyon. One has a red flag, one has a blue flag, but other than that, they looked like they’d been abandoned for years. We went inside one of them, it was like some kind of bomb shelter? Or a secret military bunker?”

“Sounds spooky,” Church says, brows drawing together in thought. “But also pretty fucking cool, right? Like something out of a horror movie. You guys just found this place back in Texas?”

“Yeah, dude! I’ll take you sometime, if you want,” Tucker offers easily.

It takes Church a moment to figure out why that sounds off.

Right. Church and Tucker don’t ‘hang out’. They don’t even live in the same city. After this is over, he won’t see Tucker again for a whole year.

For the first time since he left Houston, Church can’t think of anything to say.

The waitress chooses that moment to return with their food, saving him from coming up with a response. After eating road food for days on end, his mouth waters at the sight of a cooked meal, and it even serves to distract him from the growing uneasiness muddling his brain.

They continue making idle conversation while they eat, while, just outside, the cirrus skies are slowly overturned by grey.

When they’re finished, Tucker hooks his feet around Church’s ankles under the table. Pulling his gaze from the window, Church locks eyes with his companion.

“Hey,” Tucker breathes out in a sunny smile, and Church’s ears perk at the crack of uncertainty in his voice.

That’s new.

His mouth opens and snaps shut. The seconds stretch, and Church’s curiosity grows.

Tucker breaks eye contact, dark lashes falling over his eyes. “Um.”

He tucks back a lock of hair, a rebellious curl curving under his ear to cup the apple of his cheek, before looking back up at Church. “I, uh… I’ve been having a lot of fun with—"

“Can I take this out of your way?”

Awareness crashes down on them like a bucket of ice water. Tucker yanks his feet back and bolts upright. Church carefully collects himself as the waitress’s hands blur in front of his face, clearing the table of their plates.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

Church looks up, but realizes the waitress is speaking directly to Tucker.

Tucker slips into an easy smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, either.”

Ugh, gag. Church grits his teeth.

The waitress giggles, shifting their empty plates to rest on her hip. “Are you new in town?”

Tucker shakes his head, still smiling indulgently at her. “Just passing through.”

“Aw,” she pouts. “Too bad you picked such a gloomy day to visit. We’re in for some heavy weather this afternoon.”

“That’s why we’re here, actually. We’re storm chasing. If we’re lucky, we’ll see a tornado today.”

“Storm chasing? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Tucker nods. “Oh, for sure. You just have to know what you’re doing.”

And then he—

he fucking _winks_ at her.

The waitress breaks into a story of all the tornado drills she had to do in school, and how _glad_ she is that she’s never seen one. Church couldn’t care less. He glowers at the grains of wood in the table, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

He’s not, like, _jealous_ that Tucker winked at her. Tucker flirts with everybody, as Church came to realize soon after they met. It’s not like he means anything by it, not with her, not with Church.

But does he really need to do it in front of Church? Fucking get some manners.

He’s drawn back into the conversation when Tucker gestures to him.

“He works at the Johnson Space Center down in Houston, actually.”

The waitress then turns to him, like she forgot he was there. “Oh! Are you an astronaut?”

“Embedded systems engineer,” he says tonelessly.

“Yeah, but he also knows basically everything about meteorology,” Tucker inserts, positively beaming in Church’s direction. “He’s, like, crazy smart.”

The waitress says something else. Church isn’t listening. Familiar, niggling dread blackens the edges of his vision, senses honed over years of experience to pick up on even the slightest hint of betrayal. This isn’t like when Tex used to cheat on him, he forces himself to remember.

Obviously Tucker’s got a full life outside of these excursions with Church, one where he probably goes on dates and hooks up with people as he pleases. They have no obligations of fidelity to each other—that’s what was good about this dynamic, what made it so easy.

So what if Tucker and the waitress are flirting? Who cares what Tucker does in his free time? If he wants to sleep with this boring waitress, that’s his business.

Wait. Would he really do that?

“Just the check is fine,” Church cuts in. The waitress flinches in surprise, but at least has the good graces to look sheepish.

“Right away, sir. I’ll meet you at the counter when you’re ready.”

Church doesn’t want to see whatever look Tucker’s giving him. Not when Church walks away, and certainly not when the waitress hands Tucker his receipt, adorned with a string of extra numbers in glittery purple ink.

Tucker tosses the receipt into a trash can outside the doors, in plain view of Church.

“You’re not going to keep that?”

He struggles to keep his voice indifferent, but it must come out more acerbic than he intended, as Tucker openly rolls his eyes at him.

“Not unless you’re down to Eiffel tower,” he says with a tight smile.

If that’s Tucker’s attempt at a joke, Church doesn’t get it, and it only irritates him further.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Of course you don’t,” Tucker mutters under his breath, and pushes past him to reach the driver’s side door. As if they were in a hurry to get anywhere.

Still not satisfied, he tails Tucker to the car. “You didn’t give me a real answer.”

“You didn’t ask a real question,” Tucker tosses back before slamming the car door shut.

Moving from frustrated to downright pissed off, Church flings himself into the passenger seat.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re smart—figure it out,” he says, and yanks the gear shift into reverse.

Another snarky non-answer. It drives Church up the fucking wall.

“Fuck you, dickhead.”

Tucker doesn’t even indulge him with a response.

This is why chasing with other people is a bad idea. Other people suck. Humans aren’t meant to be around each other this much, or for this long—it’s just a recipe for bickering, and resentment, and everything just exploding in his face in the end. And now it’s gone and happened with Tucker, the one person he had a good thing going with.

He rifles through Tucker’s CDs before landing on one that fit his energy, shoves it in the system, and cranks the volume, effectively putting up a protective wall of noise between him and Tucker.

Church concentrates on the music. Lets the heavy electric guitar wash over him. Stupid Tucker, acting like he doesn’t even know what he did. Cracking his annoying jokes. She wasn’t even that good-looking!

It takes a few tracks of him stewing in agitation before he realizes that Tucker’s been driving around in circles. When he finally pulls up to a photo shop, Church recognizes the street; they must have driven past it several times already. Without a word, Tucker gets out and practically storms into the store, leaving Church alone.

By now, his anger has cooled to a simmer, clearing his head enough for him to feel the embarrassment lurking under the surface.

Fuck. He acted like an ass, didn’t he?

Running it over in his mind, he comes to the uncomfortable conclusion that he may have blown the situation a smidge out of proportion. Now Tucker probably thinks he’s a possessive, jealous lunatic. Tex called him that, once.

But Tucker isn’t Tex. Him and Tucker, they don’t... they aren’t ‘an item’ by any definition. They just fuck sometimes. So what the hell was all that in the Waffle House about? Church has always been good at compartmentalizing, but maybe after being on the road together for a long time in frequent high-stress scenarios, getting all these hormones involved—it’s only natural for the wires to get a little crossed, right?

Church scrubs at his face, a noise of frustration ripping out of his throat.

Maybe he shouldn’t have let things escalate the way they had with Tucker. It seemed like a good idea that first time. He’d been single for a while, had been looking for a chase partner, and here this photographer was, offering him what he needed and more, no strings attached. They were both dudes, after all; no need to deal with all the attachment issues and catfighting that comes with the other sex.

And yet here he is, fuming in the car like a cranky girlfriend.

Maybe Church just isn’t cut out for casual sex. Ever since he was a kid, he always wanted a wife more than a girlfriend. And before it all went to shit, he used to fantasize about settling down with Tex, getting married and starting a family, having one of those grand, cheesy romances from the movies.

A vague, nebulous thought bubbles up from the back of his mind, one that he shoves right back down. It feels right and wrong and it scares him too much.

Maybe he needs to cut this off. They only have a few more days left together, and then Church can go back to doing his own thing, let these weird feelings dissolve with time. And, maybe when next year rolls around... maybe he won’t ask Tucker to chase with him.

As soon as the thought materializes, Tucker appears again from the shop, paper bag in hand and shoulders scrunched to his ears.

Instead of returning to the driver’s seat, he makes his way to Church’s door and opens it. Church turns the music down.

“I don’t know where to go,” Tucker says, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

Church blinks, then checks the dashboard clock. Shit. It was already well past three, and they needed to get in position.

“Oh. Yeah.”

He makes to get out of the car, stealing another furtive glance at Tucker’s face. He looks exhausted, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes downcast, frowning at the asphalt.

Great. Looks like Church has ruined everybody’s mood.

They switch seats wordlessly, and Church gets to work on remembering the plan. A squadron of cells had sprung up on NWS radar earlier that day, and he had marked a spot between the two furthest from town, hoping to avoid getting caught in the worst of traffic.

Driving away from civilization, the cloud cover intensifies. Golden-hour sunlight mixes in with the storm, turning the whole sky an eerie green.

Nothing makes Church feel smaller than looking at the sky when it’s like this. When it looked like it could crush them all.

He pulls over onto a grassy knoll.

The last song on the disc had ended long ago, and without the sounds of the highway, the incoming quiet is almost suffocating. Church searches for something to say, an olive branch of some sort to cut the uncomfortable tension swelling in the compact space. Coming up blank, he gives up with a sigh.

Now isn’t the time to be distracted by this. Forcefully and determinately, he partitions his mind, stuffing everything that isn’t weather-related in the shadowy recesses of his consciousness. He needs his full attention for this and this only.

The startling buzz of the radio is a welcome interruption.

_“The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for Sedgwick county until 6:15pm central daylight time, 5:28 pm central daylight time...”_

Up ahead, an overshooting dome blooms over a pirouette of dense altostratus clouds. Lightning spreads like molasses through the storm, glowing pools of grey-blue energy crackling in the colossal anvil of vapor and ice.

Spinning faster and faster, the dark mass sags, dropping a swirling phantom of white mist. Miles below, strong winds stir up a base of dust. Even from this distance, the blades of grass around their car pull towards the storm like waves on water being drawn to the moon.

Church feels oddly detached from it all.

“Get ready to call this in.”

There’s no cheeky ‘yes sir’ or even a stubborn rebuke. Tucker just does as he’s told and grabs the mic.

At exactly 5:57 pm, they report their first tornado.

Church pulls back onto the road, following it as it makes its way northeast and back the way they came. Despite the size of its mesocyclone, the vortex itself begins its life delicate and translucent, gliding gently over open land. Only as it picks up traction does it grow denser and darker.

_“A confirmed tornado was located nine miles south of Winfield travelling northeast. Residents are advised to seek immediate shelter—”_

“Winfield?” Tucker asks, speaking up for the first time in over an hour. “I thought that was south of here?”

Church frowns. “It is. They must be talking about another storm.”

He looks around him, curious to see any other tornados on the horizon. But the whole sky is so stormy now, it’s difficult to even make out the edges of the supercell right in front of them.

Its tornado, however, was becoming impossible to ignore—widening by the second, utterly shameless in carving out the ground it tread upon. And it was treading dangerously close to the small town down in the valley.

“Oh god,” Tucker says in horror.

It happens faster than he can process. The mesocyclone descends on the city. Church and Tucker are just close enough to make it out in perfect detail—the distinct shapes of houses as they’re shredded from their foundations, hurled through the air like paper in water.

Church might vomit.

He numbs himself to that feeling. He needs to stay in control.

The tornado, after all, wasn’t stopping. Relentless, it powers further north, drawing them towards the larger Wichita metropolitan area. Church soon finds himself in a valley flooded with headlights, the tornado rapidly ensnaring them in a gridlock of evacuators and sightseers alike. Worse yet, flashing yellows, blues, and reds begin closing off every exit in sight.

Even at this distance, the haunting drone of the tornado sirens can be faintly heard above the storm. Both his radios and police scanner are going crazy. Emergency services and civilian chatter clog every open channel, and tornado warnings are issued in such rapid succession that Church can no longer keep track of them all.

Severy, Toronto, Cottonwood Falls, Jennings.

How many fucking tornados were out there right now?

“What the fuck is going on?” Tucker asks as a state police car zooms past them, sirens screaming. “Is this the apocalypse?”

“Hell if I know,” Church responds, rolling his shoulders. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this at all. “Grab a map and help me get around these road blocks, would you?”

They fall into a terse but functional groove attempting to extricate themselves from the chaos, forced to arc far to the east before continuing north. An edge of panic clings to him even as they break free from the populace and gain speed on a distant frontage road.

Church watches the tornado through his rear-view window, now a shrinking black body on the horizon.

“That things gonna blow through the whole city,” he says. “Just fucking wait.”

“Just like my ex-wife,” Tucker says lightly.

It makes Church’s blood boil.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps. “People are going to fucking die today!”

Tucker sets his jaw, his eyes flashing. “You don’t know that.”

“Did you not see it completely obliterate those houses back there? It’s heading straight towards the city! It’s gonna shred through those buildings and every single one of those idiots stuck in traffic!”

“Of course I saw it, asshole!” Tucker explodes. “I was right there!”

“Well then maybe you could muster the decency to take this situation seriously—you know, for _once in your life_.”

“Why are you being such a dick to me right now?”

“Why are _you_ being such an idiot?”

Tucker growls sharply, like a scream stifled in his throat. “Because you’re being really negative and I can’t take it! Fuck me, I guess, for trying to make a joke in a shitty situation!”

“This isn’t a joke!” Church cries out in frustration. “I’m trying to be real with you right now! Why can’t you do that?”

“Because I’m scared!”

Tucker’s words hang in the open air. Church stares, unseeing, at the trees and grasses jerking around madly from the black hole that was opening in the dark green sky. His throat feels raw.

“I’m scared, too, you know,” he says softly.

Tucker groans. From the corner of his eye, Church sees him cover his face with a hand. “Okay, don’t, like, make this into a moment, alright?”

Church’s shoulders slacken minutely, latching on to the shred of normalcy in his tone.

“Too late,” he says, prodding the sore just a little. “I think that one’s on you.”

“And you just had to go and ruin it by being you,” Tucker mumbles. He drops his hand, staring out the windshield.

Church takes a steadying breath.

Okay. So, tensions were pretty high right now. There was still a tornado out there—many tornados, actually—and arguing with Tucker wasn’t going to help.

“I think we missed the turn,” Tucker says quietly. “But there’s another one coming up soon.”

Church follows Tucker’s directions, hooking to the north and swinging back towards the mesocyclone’s path. They still have quite a bit of distance between them and the storm, so Church pulls off to the side of the road to watch it unfold.

Over open land, the tornado is more mesmerizing than it is scary. Much easier to stomach plowing over empty field than city scape.

Tucker steps out into the wind, curls and clothes plastering to his skin. Church’s eyes dart between his small figure and the monolithic mesocyclone, absently chewing on his thumbnail.

It’s hands-down the largest tornado Church has ever witnessed; a storm system that seemed to encompass the entire sky. A rain-free base gave them a perfect view of its enormous barbershop pole, tugging into its rotation a dome of clouds that stretched from horizon to horizon. Being so unfathomably tall, Church finds himself lost in its scale, unsure of how close he dares to get.

It doesn’t even look real anymore.

Hypnotized by the towering whirlwind, Church doesn’t notice at first when the tornado stills, no longer moving one way or the other.

No. It was moving _towards_ them.

Church honks at Tucker, still standing out in the wind. He hesitates, lowering his camera but making no move to leave.

Church honks again. Tucker jogs back to the car.

The green sky gently starts to rain.

As soon as Tucker’s back in his seat, Church hits the gas. There’s still plenty of space between them and the tornado, but Church doesn’t feel like taking chances today.

Only, within a few miles, his view of the tornado is cut off by a thick wall of trees running parallel to the road. He looks around. The whole roadside is startlingly lush. They must be getting close to some body of water, which means they’ve driven much further than he thought.

Church slows, looking for an exit. He doesn’t like not being in sight of the tornado.

He takes a left. Then a right.

“How the fuck do we get out of here?”

Tucker pulls out a map. “I don’t know, dude! I don’t even know where here _is_.”

Storms this powerful, they don’t just howl—they _roar_. And though he can’t see it, Church can hear it roaring from miles away. Branches snapping in the winds. Debris smashing down from the sky.

“Let’s just go back the way we came, alright?”

Church nods, already slowing to make the U-turn. “Right. Alright.”

He gets back on the main road.

The clouds themselves seemed to be closing in on them. Treetops disappear into green mist.

“Uh, Church?”

Up ahead, timber lay scattered across the road. That tree must’ve only just fallen, because it definitely wasn’t there before.

It's impassable. They're boxed in.

“Shit!” Church jerks the wheel, spinning them around again.

He tries his luck again with the increasingly complex web of tree-lined roads.

Right.

Left.

They need to get out of these _goddamn trees_.

“Yes!”

A dirt road.

He takes it, his wheels slogging against the mud.

Tucker says something that Church can’t hear.

His engine whines.

Tires slip.

They were stopping.

He presses as hard as he can on the gas, trying to lurch them out of the mud.

“Try reverse!”

“I am!”

It’s no use. The tires just keep spinning, refusing to gain traction. Digging them deeper into place.

Church doesn’t understand. He’s done this so many times, why is this happening now?

Something is battering against their car. Debris, hail, rain—Church doesn’t know.

He’s seized by a primal, gut-clenching terror.

There’s no escaping what’s about to happen.

He runs the scenarios through his mind. Get out and run to the nearest ditch, risk getting swept up or crushed by a falling tree. Stay here, risk getting swept up or crushed by a falling tree. Risk getting smushed into shrapnel-pulp. Risk getting lacerated by shards of broken glass.

He makes his decision.

“Get in the backseat.”

Tucker looks at him like he’s completely lost his mind. “What?”

But Church is already unclicking Tucker’s seatbelt. “Get in the back and lay down on the floor.”

“What are you doing? We need to get out and push the car—”

“There’s no time! Don’t fucking argue with me and get in the back, NOW!”

To Church’s immense relief, Tucker listens. He nestles awkwardly in the footwell, tucking his knees under the driver’s seat. Church follows, laying down flat on top of him, trying to shield as much of Tucker’s body as he can with his own.

Hopefully, they’re low enough that if the car crumples, they’ll be safe. If they roll, that’s another story.

The tornado sounds like it’s right on top of them now. If he thought it was deafening before, this is borderline ear-splitting.

Time dilates, dragging out every painful detail of their inevitable destruction.

They’re going to die.

Glass shatters and rains down his back.

Tucker’s nails cut into his shoulders.

His worst fears manifest in a dizzying, summersaulting weightlessness. The car begins to lift under the pull of the heavy winds. He feels like he’s been sucked into a riptide and Tucker’s breath on his neck is the only thing tethering him to the floor.

He should’ve been more careful. He thinks of Tucker’s angry face, of the nail-prints left in his seat. Tucker’s going to die and it’s all his fault.

_I’m sorry._

Gravity wraps around his guts like a vice, yanking him downwards.

It’s hard to tell how much time has elapsed with every second, every threat amplified—but they couldn’t have been dragged farther than a few feet before they’re sinking back down into the mud, which is somehow even more nauseating than moving.

Maybe they are still moving. Or maybe his head just won’t stop spinning. Shit, maybe he’s already dead.

No. He still feels Tucker’s breath on his neck, hot and steady. That’s got to be proof he’s still alive. That Tucker’s alive.

He's not indulgent enough to feel relief, not when he feels so unworthy of his life. He's only thankful that some higher power has given him this moment to bury his face in Tucker's hair, to spend every last breath in his embrace.

Church doesn’t know how long they stay like that, clinging to each other in the dark, but slowly, feeling returns to him. His heart hammering in his throat, the press of Tucker’s ribs against his own. The plane of his back covered in glass and melting chunks of hail. Muscles strung so tight they’re aching. Fingers digging in his skin. Rain-soaked to the bone. Freezing. Warm.

An eternity later, the winds outside fall away and die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember all those years ago when I said I wanted this chapter not to get too long? aah good times  
> I hope you enjoyed! one more chapter to go, and I would love to hear your thoughts :)


	4. Losing My Religion

Syrupy drops of Saturday morning sunshine melt over the leveled city. Church’s eyes feel dry and bloodshot, hypersensitive to every pool of golden light caught in twisted metal and shard of broken glass, glittering in sharp relief to the washed-out greys and browns of industrial rubble.

It was hot, hotter than Church could ever remember it being this time of year, only made worse by the lingering humidity. The heat had been ratcheting up since dawn, until now Church feels as though his brain is cooking inside his skull.

Some unspoken compulsion had sent them back to the city—morbid curiosity, the naive need for reassurance, a general lack of direction—Church supposes the reasons don’t matter at this point. Whatever he was hoping to find here, it was long since destroyed. Just like everything else.

He wipes his brow with the edge of his t-shirt sleeve, smearing damp hairs across his temple.

“Watch out for nails,” he calls to Tucker, wading through a sea of broken wood up ahead.

They weren’t the only ones who came back. The place was crawling with movement—scavengers resurfacing from their hidey holes, bulldozers and other heavy machinery meandering the distance, children holding brooms taller than them; occasionally a yellow safety-vest or sniffer dog will pop out from it all. Church wonders, how many of these people were onlookers like them? How many were walking on the graveyards of their lives, searching for any piece left to salvage?

Church rubs his sternum, overcome by a pang, that suffocating squeeze in his chest which had been rising steadily out of the numbness of shock. All he wants to do is to curl up in a ball and sleep for the rest of his life.

The world feels upside-down.

He almost doesn’t notice when Tucker stops, shouldering his camera to pull something round and black from the wreckage. Church slows, too, watching in curiosity as Tucker gives the object a rough shake. A magic 8-ball. Scuffed and coated with dust, but still intact.

Church peers over his shoulder as the inner die rolls up to the surface.

_Outlook not so good._

Tucker’s lips press into a grim line. It hurts to see. Physically hurts. The kid talks big, but he’s got a gentle kind of soul. It’s one of the reasons they get along so well, Church supposes. One of the reasons Church connects with him over all the others.

Carefully, Church pries the 8-ball out of Tucker’s hands and sets it aside on a pile of drywall.

This isn’t right. Tucker’s the one who’s better at this stuff, at being optimistic and making the world out to feel like it will recover when things go south. Church doesn’t know how to do that. He doesn’t think he would believe himself even if he tried.

He digs around in his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter.

After sparking up, he pulls off a long drag before handing the smoke to Tucker. Tucker’s fingers snake through his when he takes it, searing him where they touch.

“Tucker,” he breaches softly. “Do you... do you want to talk?”

Tucker stirs, his unfocused gaze slowly crawling up to Church’s face. Swallowing, he nods. “Sure.”

Church searches for something to say, a subject that might interest him. It feels wrong, somehow, to fall back on their usual topics of conversation in the wake of something like this. There’s this buzzing in his head making it impossible to focus on anything, even his own thoughts, and it only seems to grow louder in the expectant silence.

Taking pity on him, like always, Tucker takes the lead.

“What are you going to do about your car?”

Church slumps. “Find someone to take a look at it, I guess. I don’t want to drive back with that window if I can avoid it.”

When all was said and done, the tornado had just barely clipped them on its violent departure from existence, but even at a distance, its winds were powerful enough to drag Church’s car several feet through the mud, burying the tires nearly halfway down. At least his engine still ran, and with some effort, they were able to drive away from the scene all on their own.

That didn’t mean they got out of it scot-free.

The back window had been completely shattered, littering the interior with pebbles of glass. On top of the that, there were multiple deep scrapes and dents along the side that Church doubts can be fixed with a sharpie. Add that to his already missing hubcap, and it was pretty fucking shitty all around.

Still, it could be worse. That beast of a storm hit hard, but it didn’t cost him his home. It didn’t cost him his life.

Tucker hands the cigarette back. “Do you need help paying for it?” he asks, no hint of derision or pity in his voice.

Even so, Church grimaces. “I don’t know, man. I... it’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Tucker aborts an eye-roll. “Dude,” he murmurs. “Don’t do that. We’re in this fifty-fifty, right? It’s not like it’s all your problem to deal with. I was there, too, so y’know, let me cover half like we always do, and it won’t be so bad.”

Church stares at him, the truth of those words ringing so much deeper than Tucker probably realizes. Tucker, his steady source of support, offering humor when things seem bleakest or grounding him when Church gets so frazzled it feels like he might shatter, shouldering his burdens and sharing in his victories. Church couldn’t imagine having to face this terrible fucking day with anyone else.

A loud news helicopter can be heard passing by overhead, but Church can’t bring himself to look up. He’s overcome by how unbearably _fond_ of Tucker he is in this moment, and of how badly he needs to get this across before the moment’s gone.

Just as suddenly, his words and the confidence to say them slip out from under his feet as doubt shoves its way in. His self-policing, second-guessing inner voice reminds him in a hiss that he’s walking in the dark and all it takes is one wrong step—one wrongly interpreted signal—to ruin everything. He wishes he didn’t have that voice right then. It only ever sent him spiraling.

“Church?”

Tucker’s watching him carefully, like he can see the blackness of his thoughts unfolding on his face.

“Sorry, I’m...”

Church trails off again, unsure of what to say. So he offers Tucker a smile instead, trying to force all of his unspeakable, scattered feelings into the one shaky gesture.

Maybe he gets it, because Tucker’s eyes soften. “It’s cool.”

It’s probably the heat, but Church swears he sees a slight flush dusting his nose. Church sucks a quick drag off the cigarette, mostly to give his hands something to do (before he does something completely embarrassing with them, like reach out for Tucker’s). The nicotine is already starting to clear his head a little. Give him focus. Or maybe that’s just a side effect of being around Tucker.

“Hey, Blues!”

With great effort, he tears his eyes away from Tucker’s to see Grif and Simmons, of all people, making their way towards them.

“Dude, we saw your car parked over there,” Grif calls as they approach. “It looks fucked! Are you alright?”

“We’re fine,” Church answers honestly. “Almost got our asses kicked by that F5, but we’re still here. What about you guys?”

“Wait, you saw the big one that went through here?” Simmons asks, coming to a halt before them. “Lucky. We were way too far south for that. Sarge is back at the car right now having a fit about it.”

Church puts his cigarette out on a nearby slab of concrete. He doesn’t think he feels lucky about any of this.

“He was the one who wanted to go to Tulsa in the first place,” Grif says, picking up the discarded 8-ball and tossing it between his hands. “I told you guys we should have gone further and you didn’t listen. Then what happens? Fifty tornados in Kansas, and we don’t see any of them!”

“There were 50 tornados in the _country_ ,” Simmons corrects. “Kansas only had about 20.”

“Whatever. Kansas still got all the big ones.”

“Also incorrect. Three of the F4s were in Oklahoma. I swear, it’s like you don’t even pay attention to the news.”

“Ugh, what’s the point of listening to the news all the time if we just have to do it all over again the next day?”

Tucker makes a face at him. “You know it changes every day, right?”

“Yeah, well, it would be way more interesting if it was like how I remember it when I paraphrase it to people three days later.”

“If the news was how you paraphrased it, I’m pretty sure society would collapse,” Church says, already falling victim to the Reds’ infectious levity.

Grif clicks his tongue and grins. “Can’t argue with that.”

A comfortable silence settles over the four of them. Maybe that was all Church needed—someone to share the silence with, without having to come up with meaningless bullshit to fill it.

Unbidden, he finds his gaze drawing back to Tucker.

It would be nice if Tucker knew, though. Hell, it would be nice if Church knew... if he knew what?

If he knew what Tucker felt. If he knew this tangled mess of hope and yearning and protectiveness and fear didn’t just exist inside his own head. If it was killing Tucker just as much as it was killing Church, all the times he winks and laughs and _walks away_. Can a person die from ambiguity?

The moments stretch before Simmons offers an awkward, “Yeah, well, we’re glad you guys aren’t dead or whatever.”

“Gee, thanks,” Tucker snarks, though his lips twitch at the corners. And, after a beat. “You, too.”

“Hey!” someone calls from the edge of the road. He’s wearing thick overalls and what look like gardening gloves, the shadow of his baseball cap obscuring his face. “Can y’all spare a hand? We’ve got some roads to clear over here and could use all the help we can get.”

To Church’s complete surprise, Grif is the first to agree. “Sure thing. We’ll be right over.” He passes off the 8-ball to Church by shoving it into his hands. “You coming, Blue?”

Tucker shrugs. “We’ve got nothing else to do. Might as well help, right?”

Church assents, letting his friends stream out of the area before he follows. What a strange fucking day it’s been. Flipping over the toy in his hands one last time, Church can’t stop the question from forming in his mind.

_You may rely on it._

With everything going on, it should come as no surprise that they can’t get into an auto-shop until Sunday morning. On the bright side, they’re able to fix everything but the hubcap, for which they don’t have a spare on hand, and determine there’s no damage to the frame or engine. Unfortunately, this eats up the entire day, and Church still has to be back to work on Monday.

“Just sleep in the car,” Tucker says for the fourth time. “I’ll drive.”

“You need sleep, too,” Church points out. Again.

They’re still in the parking lot of the auto shop, sitting in the open trunk of his car, waiting for the hour to pass before the new glass has set and is safe to drive. Sheets of afternoon sunlight cut across their bodies and cast long shadows onto the pavement, reminding Church of how quickly the time was slipping away from him.

“I’ll just take a nap when I get home. _My_ boss lets me take personal days when I’m trapped in another state after a natural disaster.”

Church shakes his head. “You don’t have a boss.”

“I know! And my life is fucking great! Have you ever considered quitting?”

That earns Tucker an elbow in the ribs.

“We’ll split the drive. And the nap,” he says, turning to his companion. “Fifty-fifty, right?”

Tucker smiles and leans into him, his chin nearly coming to rest on Church’s shoulder. They’d been steadily shifting closer together on the bumper until now they’re pressed from thigh to shoulder. Close enough that Church can feel these strange, tiny shivers running down Tucker’s frame; close enough that they audibly rustle Church’s windbreaker.

“Where’s your jacket?” he asks softly, his words not needing much to close the gap between them.

Tucker tilts his nose towards their luggage. “Buried in my bag under the rest of my shit.”

Church nods and reaches behind him, ignoring Tucker’s confused protest as he fishes out the emergency sweatshirt he keeps next to the first-aid kit and bottles of water. It’s one he got from his work, with the NASA logo emblazoned over the left breast. He shoves it in Tucker’s lap, not giving him the opportunity to reject it.

Tucker looks at him warily for a moment before slipping it over his head. It’s way too big for him. The sleeves fall past his hands and the torso part buries him in fabric. Tucker tucks his nose up under the collar before smoothing it over his neckline. Wraps himself up in it like a blanket. It’s probably the best thing Church has seen all day.

Biting his lip, Tucker seems to hesitate before returning Church’s gaze. “Um. Could I borrow some toothpaste, too? I couldn’t find mine earlier.”

Church sighs dramatically, stretching past Tucker for his overnight bag. “You’re a mess.”

All too soon, the sun sets on Church’s last day of chasing. Daylight drains away, casting the endless stretch of road before him in that hazy bluish tint of dusk, like television static fogging up his vision. Shadows bleed into the dirt and disappear. Detail on the ground is lost to the rich greys and electric blues in the overcast sky.

Church pulls off to the side of the road and rubs his eyes under his glasses. He’s exhausted. But the lightning overhead, the stress of needing to be across state lines by morning, and the general emotional upheaval of the last 48 hours are all keeping him on edge, and he doubts he’ll be able to catch much sleep even if he were already in his own bed.

There’s one thing that might fix that.

He turns off the engine and carefully folds up his glasses, tucking them in the case he keeps in the glovebox. From the glovebox, he also retrieves two more items, which he sets aside on the passenger seat. Next to go are his shoes, which he slips off and tosses into the footwell. With one last deep breath he wipes his hands on his pant legs and climbs out of his seat.

Given the deep, steady rise and fall of his chest, Tucker is still sound asleep on the backseat. His fists curl tightly around the edge of his blanket, the heel of his palm pressed to his forehead, the line of worry between his brows smoothed to nothing. Church hesitates, hand hovering above Tucker’s sleeping form, unsure if he really has it in him to disturb that stillness. Wary that his presence would shatter any peace Tucker finds in his sleep.

After drinking in the scene a little longer, Church decides to be selfish. He lifts the blanket and slides onto the narrow seat, saddling a thigh between Tucker’s legs and nudging him into the backrest.

Tucker only stirs and mumbles something that sounds like “five more minutes.”

Church kisses him. Tucker’s response is sloppy and delayed, accompanied by little activation sounds as Church brings him to life. But his mouth is soft and pliant and, God, still tastes like Church’s toothpaste.

Church slips a hand under the blanket, under Tucker’s shirt, to the warm skin underneath. Tucker makes a pitiful sound in the back of his throat, trying to curl in on himself against the cold invasion.

Church pushes his hand lower, into Tucker’s pants, bringing out a soft hiss from his companion.

For an extended moment, the only sounds are the rhythmic rustling of clothes, the breath passing between them, and the occasional clap of thunder. But, while this highway has been empty for miles, Church knows that could change at any moment, so he moves to hurry things along. He shimmies down to the floor and pulls Tucker’s pants down just enough to take him in his mouth.

Tucker groans.

Fingers sink into Church’s hair.

“Mmmmm. Good morning, baby.”

Tucker’s voice is husky with sleep, and it scratches dangerously down Church’s spine.

Church responds with enthusiasm. It doesn’t take much to get Tucker thoroughly worked up, to get him panting and praising Church under his breath. Church has always found car sex too dicey and cramped to be worth the effort, but the deep groans and throaty whimpers he’s milking out of Tucker are too good to let go.

Sitting up on his knees, Church takes his full length in his mouth, gagging a little to bury his nose into the soft dip of his hip bone. Tucker flinches. He cups Church’s jaw, pulling him off, and rubs a thumb into his chin.

“Poky,” he mumbles.

Church runs his fingers along the stubble there. It’s been a few days since he last shaved; he hadn’t realized it had gotten the to the point of feeling like itchy sandpaper.

He decides it’s a good a time as any to change the game. Stretching behind him, he retrieves the condom and lube he left on the passenger seat and tosses them onto Tucker’s stomach. Brown eyes stare back at him, wide and glazed and questioning as Church climbs back onto the seat.

The blanket falls as they trade places. Their movements are awkward and stunted, limited by the boxed-in space. Church’s lips still tingle from the short blow, and the effect seems to wash over him in shivers, anticipation raising tiny bumps on his exposed skin.

Clothes have to stay on, merely pushed aside as necessary. Church hates it. He wants more; to touch more, to feel more. He feels like he’s starving, like his rib cage has been pried open with a crowbar, setting free something desperate and yawning to be fed.

And Tucker’s giving it to him readily, like it costs him nothing.

Warm hands run up and down the sides of Church’s thighs. “Do you wanna—"

“I’m ready _now_ ,” Church insists, tugging at Tucker’s hips, trying to pull him in closer.

Tucker curses. “Okay. Okay.”

Tucker tears the condom open with his teeth, rolls it on, and centers himself all with one hand. Church catches his breath at the slick wet sound that follows and doesn’t release it again until Tucker finally gives him what he came for.

The rain picks up outside, fat drops tapping against the windows, not loud enough to mask their collective sigh.

Church admires Tucker above him, in the soft light filtered through heavy rain. Inside him, warm and alive, moving slow, shallow, and gentle. Tucker’s kind of beautiful, he concludes. What a filthy thought. What a horrible, no-good realization.

And he’s good at making it quick. Almost too quick. He ups the tempo, moving with an intensity and purpose Church has never felt before, bordering on the edge of overwhelming. Church wishes it could last forever. He wishes they were back in the safety of some cheap motel room they’d never see again.

Pressure explodes in the back of his mind as exploratory fingers wrap around his dick.

There’s no way Church will be able to give this up. He’s in too deep. Tucker’s the sunshine that makes his miserable life brighter, and another year between them is all he can take before he’ll need to feel the sun again, as surely as he’ll need to feel the wind and the rain. It was stupid of him to think it could ever be different.

When the weight of these thoughts becomes too much to bear, Church buries himself deeper in the moment, hiding inside Tucker’s undivided attention. His eyes shine with something unknowable during these times that Church finds cruelly intoxicating, like maybe Church could blame everything that’s ever happened on the way Tucker looks at him, if only he himself weren’t so obligingly complacent in it.

That’s not even the worst part of all this. Because for as long as Church has been looking, Tucker’s been looking right back. And Church has been around too long to kid himself into thinking that’s anything less than significant.

“Say my name,” Church says, because that’s what he wants to hear more than anything.

“Church,” Tucker says in a broken whisper.

It ties Church’s stomach in knots. He draws his knees closer to his chest, letting Tucker in deeper.

It’s like a dam breaking. Words just start spilling out of Tucker’s mouth. “Church,” he says again. “Fuck, Church. You look so sexy. Feel so good, Church. I lo—I love it. Love being inside you.”

Church’s eyes slide shut, all at once completely vulnerable and utterly invincible.

“I love it, too.”

The knot in his stomach unravels, along with most of his mind. He falls out of the world, tumbling through euphoria for an unmeasurable breath of time, before surfacing to the sound of rain and thunder. He waits for Tucker to join him, raking his nails across Tucker’s sides as his thrusts become increasingly erratic.

Church wishes he could make out his expression shrouded in the cover of twilight, but when his hips stutter and he moans in that unmistakable way, it’s enough to make Church moan with him.

Tucker bottoms out one more time, then it’s over.

His departure is immediately followed by a practiced cleanup of a crime scene. Clothes are dragged back over overly sensitive skin, fluids wiped hastily, evidence disposed of and kicked under the seat.

Church lays with his legs dangling over the seat edge, unable to do anything more than zone out to the constant prickling of electricity in the sky. He feels a distinct chill rolling off the windows. The thick fog clinging to the glass is already beginning to condense in the dissipating heat of their tryst.

He feels like maybe he should say something right now. Like maybe normal people would say something to each other right now.

“It’s your turn to drive.”

Tucker’s head swivels in his direction.

“Yeah,” he says, interrupted by a nearby grumble of thunder. “I’ll, uh... See you when we get there.”

Church doesn’t really want him to go just yet, despite the awkwardness mounting with every second that passes in the fading post-sex haze. Either sensing his hesitation or sharing it, Tucker leans down for a short, parting kiss. Church doesn’t even mind when Tucker catches some of his hair between his palm and the leather of the seat.

When Tucker pulls back, he’s rubbing his fingertips against his lips. “Ugh, you really do need a shave, man.”

Church squeezes the wrist still planted by his head. “Don’t be a baby.”

There’s nothing left to say after that. Tucker draws back fully and leaps into the driver’s seat. Soon enough, the engine starts, and soft music fills the car. It’s a pretty song. Church listens to it play while he basks in the empty ache Tucker’s left behind, not yet willing to let go of the feeling.

Lids growing heavier despite himself, Church pulls the blanket up to his face. It still smells like Tucker.

With the extra time needed to get around road closures and traffic jams, they don’t make it to Austin until nearly six in the morning. They switch out drivers at a gas station on the outskirts of the city, giving Church an excuse not to get out of the car when he drops Tucker off at his studio.

The lot is just as abandoned as before, populated only by Tucker’s little jeep tucked in the shadow of the building. Briskly, Tucker unloads his things from the trunk. Church could get out and help him, but he doesn’t. Pinks and yellows and blues are swirling overhead in the lightening sky. Church stares blankly at the lone north star, feeling the nausea of waking up early from too little sleep.

Tucker circles back to the passenger side of the car. The surreal lighting of this sherbet dawn softens his face like a pastel painting; Church finds it hard to look at him. He tries to summon up all the memories of Tucker being annoying, like when he brushed his teeth in their moving car and tried to spit it out the window, spraying the side of the car with toothpaste and drool that dried there until they could power-wash it off at the next stop. Or when he forgot to put the parking brake on and they had to chase his rolling car down a Wal-Mart parking lot. Or how he can never decide on where he wants to eat when they stop for lunch. Or how he always wants to chat in the middle of the night when Church is trying to sleep. Or—

“See you around,” Tucker says through the open window, even though it’s not really true.

Church lifts a hand off the wheel in farewell. He thinks of how great it’ll be to finally be back home. Of how much he’s missed privacy and solitude and only having himself to look out for.

Tucker slaps the doorframe, nods, and walks away. Church doesn’t wait for him to reach the building before taking off. He needs to get going if he wants to make it in time for work, after all.

Really, saying goodbye only gets worse with practice.

Tuesday night sees Church alone at his house, trying to shut his brain off by watching Full House reruns and eating cold take-out. He thinks he might be getting a headache when the shrill ring of his landline abruptly confirms it. Church groans. He debates letting it go to voicemail, but it’s probably some idiot from his work who needs his help with something obvious; just about no one there ever seemed to know what they were doing. Grumbling to himself, he reaches over the arm of his couch for the phone.

“Hello?” he greets dully.

“Hey—Church?”

Church sits up in his seat. It’s Tucker.

“Hey, man,” he says after a moment’s recovery. “Uh, what’s up?”

There’s a pause on the other end.

“I, uh. I have your sweatshirt.”

“...My sweatshirt?”

“Yeah. The NASA one.”

“Oh.”

Church hesitates. He doesn’t understand why Tucker would be calling him in the middle of the night about a misplaced sweatshirt—it seems like something that would fall below the radar of things Tucker would be concerned about. Besides, Church can always just get another one from his work.

And he’d never say this out loud, but it’s kind of nice knowing Tucker has it.

He’s about to say Tucker can keep it when he speaks again. “Yeah, well, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come by the studio sometime and pick it up? I’ll be finished printing soon, too, so you can see the pictures, if you want.”

“That—that sounds good, yeah,” Church agrees readily, the three-hour drive between them suddenly trivial, “Maybe this weekend? Does Saturday work?”

He can hear the smile in Tucker’s next words. “Saturday works.”

“You’re early,” Tucker calls from the doorway.

Church jogs up to him, unable to stop the grin from forming on his face. “Not that early.”

He slips past Tucker’s outstretched arm propping open the back door and steps into the air-conditioned building. It leads him into a kitchenette area, the space lit entirely by soft white sunbeams streaming in from the large windows near the ceiling. Even though this is clearly not a section of the studio open to visitors, Church can see dozens of photographs plastered to the walls, and even more scattered across the surface of the small table in the middle of the space. He wonders which ones are Tucker’s.

“I made coffee.” Tucker points to the counter. Church sees his sloppily folded sweatshirt next to a coffee maker, as well as a few mugs sitting in and around the sink.

Church ignores these completely, distracted by something pinned to the wall.

“Is this the lightning?”

He leans in to inspect the photographs. There are several of them, each depicting a unique set of red scratches hanging in a cloudy night sky: the rarely captured ground-to-space lightning.

Two other pictures on the wall catch his attention. One is of Tucker—the one Church took of him holding a snake. It’s slightly out of focus, and definitely not as professional-looking as the photographs surrounding it, but infinitely more lovely just by virtue of its subject, and that goofy beaming smile of his that Church could stare at for hours.

The other photo is of Church himself, though he has no idea when it was taken, especially considering how he’s always disliked being in front of the camera. He’s outside somewhere, standing in front of his car, clearly unaware of his picture being taken. His hair and clothes look slightly damp, like they had just been caught in a rain shower, and he’s smiling softly at something just out of frame.

He’s never seen himself look so... peaceful.

Tucker walks up behind him and hands him a steaming mug.

“Those are just tests,” he says, tugging at Church’s sleeve. “I’ve got bigger prints up at the front—better ones than that. Come on.”

Tucker takes him through the maze of partition panels making up the studio, waiting patiently as Church scans each print for the little slip of paper displaying Tucker’s name. Tucker’s pictures are vastly better than Flowers’s, in Church’s opinion. The man photographs everything, like he can’t quite decide on one genre to focus on. There’s portraits and landscapes, architecture and wildlife, busy streets and quiet rooms—by all logic, it shouldn’t be able to work together, but it does. Every picture is connected by this distinct style that feels so very _Tucker,_ his personality shining through as boldly and captivatingly as it does in real life.

Church’s favorite pieces are the ones of storms. He knows he’s biased, though, because most of them he recognizes from their chases. It’s like a trip down memory lane and all that shit. There’s the first twister they ever saw together: a landspout that hit right outside Austin, way back before they started chasing together. It was the day they met. And there, a looming black storm cell from ’89 in New Mexico, if he’s remembering right. Here, lightning striking a lone tree at night, the faint sparkle of fireflies lighting up the grass—that one was from this last trip.

Church is glad Flowers isn’t here today, and that it’s just him and Tucker. He can’t deny there’s something different about being with Tucker today compared to the past few weeks. There’s this sense of rebelliousness in the air, like Church is being let in on a secret, and he feels it in the excitable way they weave around each other, when Tucker darts in and out of Church’s reach.

There aren’t any storms to chase today. There’s no agenda. No expectations.

Today is something new.

“These are really good, man,” he says. Tucker shrugs off the compliment, eyes falling modestly to the floor, but Church can tell he’s pleased. “You should work for National Geographic or something.”

Tucker casts him a suspicious look. His hair is up today, curls scraped into an adorable floof at the back of his head that bounces as he rocks on the balls of his feet.

“I’m serious!” Church insists. “These are easily better than half the pictures they publish in Storm Track.”

“Oh, hey!” Tucker points to the wall behind Church, clearly deflecting, like he’s unsure of what to do with Church’s praise. “Remember this?”

Church lets the topic change slide, amused by his ability to fluster the normally cool-header photographer. Feeling emboldened, he lets his fingertips brush the small of Tucker’s back as he passes by, causing the younger man to slow in his step, just for a moment.

The hours slip away as they move from the studio back to the kitchen, talking about everything and nothing at all. It’s not fair, it’s not _sensical,_ how badly this spontaneous meet-up was affecting him. Only a week has passed since he’s last seen Tucker, which is apparently just enough time to miss him like a sappy idiot and yet not enough time to forget the reasons why. It seemed like the more time he spent with Tucker, the less fun he had without.

At some point, Church proposes an idea that has been building in the back of his mind since last Friday.

“Think about it. I mean, it’s one thing to be able to track a tornado as it unfolds, like where it’s going and how fast—that stuff is good in the moment, but—what about _how_ it forms? Nobody knows how it all works, not really, but if we studied these storms in the field, maybe we could help improve the overall forecasting for when they’re going to happen.”

Tucker seems to consider this seriously. “That would be pretty cool, but... how?”

“Well, this is just an idea, but I was thinking we could make something like a radiosonde—” At the blank look on Tucker’s face, Church rephrases. “Like a weather recording instrument, a probe. I program these kinds of probes for work, after all, and those go up into space! We could totally do something similar, and outfit them with Doppler radar, hygrometers—er, you know, stuff to measure, like, wind and humidity and electrical discharge and shit.”

Tucker purses his lips, rubbing at a smudge in the table. “Yeah, I don’t really know anything about that nerd stuff.” He looks back up at Church with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sounds like it’d be right up Simmons’s alley, though.”

Church works his lip between his teeth, trying to find a way of he saying he doesn’t really care what Simmons would think of it, only what Tucker thinks.

“Maybe we could collaborate with them. If they’re willing to work with a couple of Blues, that is.” Church grins, but Tucker drops his gaze back to the table.

“But I’m saying... I don’t know how _I_ could help. All I can do is take pictures.”

“So? Pictures are good, too,” Church asserts. “You ever heard of, uh, photomno—no, tomno—uh, photogrammetry?”

Tucker snorts. “Sounds like _you’ve_ never even heard of it.”

“Whatever, the word doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is pictures are also important, alright?” Church takes a breath, needing as much momentum as possible to get this off his chest. “It wouldn’t be fun without you, anyways.”

There. Church said it. It’s out there.

It takes major effort to keep looking the man in the face after that. Tucker looks surprised, confused, like he’s waiting for Church to deliver the punch line. But there’s nothing left in Church’s empty skull. It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. Why did he have to go and say something so corny? Is he insane?

But then a hand snakes around the back of his head, and Tucker’s leaning over the table. Church catches on in the split second before their lips meet—relief washing down on him in a violent, heady downpour. Oh, god—yes. It was true.

It was _real_.

His own hands grip Tucker’s face as he surges into the embrace, needing to make up for lost time with a fierce, primal devotion. Tucker kisses back sweetly. Like they’ve got all the time in the world.

Church doesn’t know how long this lasts, but when they finally break apart, it feels like he’s just run a mile. His heart is racing, face burning, as he settles back into a world that is significantly changed.

Tucker falls heavily back in his seat, looking equally flustered.

One look at each other and the two burst into laughter, cackling like ten-year-olds over the sheer ridiculousness of it all. How fucked must he be if all it takes is one kiss and a few dumb words to tie his stomach in knots? Right then, it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he could do the same to Tucker, and that was a high he was going to be riding for a very long time.

Yeah, it was pretty stupid. Just not for the reasons he thought.

Eventually, even borrowed time runs out.

It’s evening when Tucker hands Church his sweatshirt and offers to walk him out to his car. Church nearly insists on giving it to him for keeps, head racing with daydreams of Tucker tucking the collar up under his nose, the sleeves falling past his fingertips, a constant reminder of the man who gave it to him.

But he can’t exactly leave it here if he technically came all this way to take it back so, wordlessly, he accepts its return.

Feet dragging all the way to the car, Church feels the leaden weight of reality sinking in his gut. He doesn’t want another goodbye. Knowing it’s coming whether he likes it or not, knowing he owes Tucker at least a few parting words, he tries forming a goodbye in his head, but all he can think about is _next year_. Next _year_.

_I’ll see you again, next year_.

Now that he’s aware of it, of this _thing_ that exists between him and Tucker, Church can’t muster the energy to fight it when it tries to pull him back. He’s not even sure he wants to.

He doesn’t want another goodbye.

“I’ve never seen an eclipse before,” he blurts, turning on heel to look back at Tucker. “Have you?”

Tucker stops in his tracks, blinking in surprise. They’re halfway to Church’s car, in the middle of the empty lot, the setting sun casting across Tucker’s irises in a way that makes them glow like golden honey.

“No?”

“I bet those would make for good pictures,” Church muses.

Tucker’s eyes dart rapidly between Church’s own, like he’s trying to catch up to his sudden train of thought.

“Grif said there’d be one over Hawaii in July,” Church continues, as if just remembering it on the spot.

That makes Tucker smile. He toes at the gravel. “I’ve never been to Hawaii before, either.”

“Me neither.” Church shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling almost robotic with how aggressively he tries to make the gesture seem casual. “I heard there’s some crazy nature up there, though. Volcanos and coral reefs and beaches and all that jazz. Probably a great place for photographers.”

Tucker snorts. “You think Grif would let us crash on his couch for a few days?”

He says it like a joke, but if Church is grasping at straws, he’s holding on tight. He takes a bold step forward. “He does owe us one.”

Tucker’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “This is starting to sound like a thing.”

“Would that be so bad?”

For once, Church already knows the answer. But he watches for Tucker’s reaction anyways, captivated by every little detail: the way his teeth tug at his lower lip, his keys bouncing nervously in his hand, the sharp bob of the apple of his throat.

Finally, those honeyed eyes turn back on Church, memories full of stolen kisses, lingering looks, fingertips drumming up his chest; sudden laughter and endless conversation and the feeling of never having felt better.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” Tucker asks, a slight waver to his voice. “We can talk it out over dinner or something.”

All at once, the clouds clear in Church’s chest. The glorious sun was breaking through.

“Yeah,” he says with the release of his breath. “Yeah, I could eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :)


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